LIBRARY 

DIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
©AVIS 


SKETCHES 


• 

FROM   A 


S  T  TJ  D  E  N  T'S    WINDOW, 


S.    G.    GOODRICH. 


BOSTON  : 
PUBLISHED   BY   WKLLIAM  D.   TICKNOR 

MDCCCXLI. 


LJKKAK\ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIi-OKJ>4iA 
i 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 

BY  S.  G.  GOODRICH, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON, 

PRINTED    BY    SAMUEL    N.    DICKINSON, 
WASHINGTON   STREET. 


NOTE. 


THE  following  collection  of  Fragments,  Fables,  and  Fantasies, 
is  gathered  from  various  works,  mostly  periodical,  in  which 
they  have  before  appeared.  A  portion  are  now  published  for 
the  first  time.  The  verses  at  page  122,  are  a  paraphrase  of 
one  of  Northcote's  fables. 


CONTENTS. 


MV  FRIEND  PLUM,      . 


BIRTHNIGHT  OF  THE  HUMMING  BIRDS, 


THE  DREAM  FULFILLED, 


THE  CAVE  OF  DIAMONDS, 
THE  KING  OF  TERRORS,  . 
THE  SCHOOL  BOY'S  SATURDAY,  . 


A  HORSE  AND  A  WIFE, 


PREJUDICE, 


THE  RAINBOW  BRIDGE, 


FOOT-PRINTS, 


LOVE  OF  NATURE, 


9 

.   16 
21 

.  27 

31 
.  34 

45 
.  62 

68 
.  70 

72 


Vi                                             CONTENTS. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK,    .            . 

.    78 

SELF-DECEPTION,       

86 

* 
THE  MONKEYS  IN  PROCESSION,        .... 

.  106 

THE   GREEDY  FOX,      

.       108 

THE  TWO  SHADES,           

.  110 

115 

THE  BLUE-BIRD,                

.  118 

THE  LAMP,          

.       120 

-,  .*•*.   .  122 

TO  A  WILD  VIOLET,  IN  MARCH,             .... 

i      124 

THE  WOUNDED  ROBIN,               

.  125 

THE  ANGEL'S  PRIVILEGE,         

.  t    127 

CHATSWORTH^  TEN  YEARS  AGO,     .... 

.  129 

THE  TURKEY  AND  RATTLESNAKE,       .... 

.       137 

#&^..  139 

\       141 

THE  BENEFITS  OF  INDUSTRY,            .... 

.      *'„  142 

CONTENTS. 

vii 

JACK  FROST,       .            .            .       "     .            .            .         'V 

145 

THE  PEDLER,          -      «r      .   •• 

.  147 

THE  RIVER,        

154 

]  .")."•> 

THE  TWINS,        ......            »;.•..     .**!*"* 

156 

THE  LIAR,                  .* 

.  161 

THE  GENIUS  OF  PLAINTIVE  MUSIC,                  .... 

162 

THE  GIANT  AND  THE  ANTS,                

.  164 

THE  SUSTAINER  OF  ALL  THINGS,         
, 
LIFE,                  

165 
.  172 

THE  PERSECUTED  EAGLE,            .            .            .            . 

175 

THE  MONKEY'S  PETITION,      .        ,         .         .         .         . 

.  177 

THE  GIPSIES'  PRAYER,        .       v..            .            .> 

181 

THE   SENSES,             .            ,             .             ,            .             4      "''.-.«•" 

.  182    . 
184 

THE  THREE  CLASSES  OF  SOCIETY,             .... 

.  196 

THE  BIRD'S  ADIEU,                .            .            .            .          *.            . 

201 

Vlll 


CONTENTS 


TRAITS  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER, 

CHINGFORD  CHURCH, 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  MISFORTUNE, 

THE  MAGICIAN, 

THE  HERMITESS, 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS, 


.  203 

.  240 
.  242 

.   256 

.  260 

293 


MY  FRIEND  PLUM. 

I  TELL  not  my  tale  to  a  cold  and  careless  world.  I 
waste  not  sighs  upon  ears  that  are  deaf.  A  story  of 
misfortune  is  a  pearl  too  precious  to  be  cast  before 
those  who  would  only  trample  upon  it.  I  speak  to  the 
tender  and  sympathetic  ear  of  those  whom  experience 
has  taught  to  contrast  the  bliss  of  friendship,  indulged 
without  suspicion  or  alloy,  with  the  bitterness  of  dis 
appointed  trust  and  betrayed  affection. 

I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  both  my  parents  at  an 
early  age.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
my  father  followed  her  soon  after  I  entered  my  twenty- 
first  year.  I  was  an  only  child,  and  without  relatives ; 
but  my  father  committed  me  to  the  care  of  a  friend  by 
the  name  of  Plum,  of  whom  he  had  a  high  opinion,  and 
to  whom  he  was  fondly  attached.  Whether  my  father's 
choice  of  a  guardian  for  one  whose  imagination  was 
stronger  than  his  judgment,  and  whose  passions  were 
more  active  than  his  principles,  was  wise  or  not,  is  a 
question  which  I  leave  to  be  (decided  by  the  issue  of  my 
story. 

The  stern  and  strict  control  of  my  father  was  no 
sooner  withdrawn,  than  I  felt  like  a  liberated  bird.  I 
indulged  my  fancy  in  every  thing.  I  bought  gay  horses, 
drove  dashing  gigs,  smoked,  drank,  flourished  at  Na- 


10  MY      FRIEND      PLUM. 

hant  and  Saratoga,  put  a  gold  chain  about  my  neck, 
with  a  useless  quizzing  glass  attached  to  it  and  thrust 
into  my  waistcoat  pocket,  criticised  the  ladies'  ancles, 
talked  lightly  of  female  virtue,  and  impudently  ogled 
every  woman  whom  I  met. 

I  was  perhaps  the  less  to  be  blamed  for  these  follies, 
that  I  followed  the  fashion  of  young  men  of  my  condition, 
and  was  rather  abetted  than  restrained  in  my  course 
by  my  guardian.  At  length  I  fell  in  love,  and  my  taste 
became  matrimonial.  I  worshipped  a  pretty  girl  of 
sixteen,  and  promised  to  marry  her.  But  time  and  re 
flection  altered  my  views.  My  goddess  became  an 
insipid  girl.  To  put  an  end  to  my  engagement,  I 
suddenly  embarked  for  Europe,  giving  it  forth  to  be 
understood  that  I  should  be  absent  several  years.  My 
reputation  would  have  suffered  for  this  and  some  other 
trifles,  had  not  my  friend  Plum  exerted  his  influence  in 
my  behalf,  which  he  did  so  effectually,  that  I  was  fully 
acquitted,  and  the  young  lady  was  left  to  unpitied 
mortification  and  contempt. 

I  could  not  think  of  travelling  alone ;  so  I  contrived 
to  have  my  guardian  accompany  me.  On  my  arrival  at 
Liverpool,  my  ignorance  of  the  manners  and  customs  of 
England  brought  me  into  sundry  awkward  situations. 
In  these  cases  I  found  the  assistance  of  Plum  to  be 
invaluable.  He  settled  every  difficulty  in  a  moment, 
and  always  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself.  He  seemed  to 
understand  England  perfectly,  and  I  afterwards  learnt 
that  he  was  not  a  stranger  to  other  countries.  I  soon 
hurried  to  London.  I  was  anxious  to  participate  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  world's  metropolis.  The  influence  of 


MY      FRIEND      PLUM.  11 

Plum  soon  gained  me  admission  into  fashionable  society. 
It  was  winter,  and  I  was  invited  to  an  assembly  at  Al- 
mack's.  My  acquaintance  enlarged,  and  I  was  soon  in 
the  full  career  of  fashionable  dissipation.  My  society 
was  sought  by  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  first  degree. 
Not  a  few  cards  with  noble  names  upon  them  were 
exhibited  in  my  rack. 

I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  my  success.  My 
vanity  could  not  persuade  me  to  impute  it  all  to  my 
person  and  address.  I  became  inquisitive,  and  learned 
at  length,  to  my  great  surprise,  that  it  was  mainly  on 
account  of  my  guardian,  who  was  held  in  such  high 
estimation,  that  all  who  were  connected  with  him  par 
ticipated  in  his  honors.  At  first  I  was  piqued  by  the 
discovery ;  but  such  is  the  influence  of  self-flattery,  and 
such  also  was  the  seductive  guise  and  seeming  sincerity 
of  the  attentions  I  received,  that  I  ceased  to  scrutinize 
the  motive,  and  took  them  as  if  offered  to  me  on  the 
ground  of  personal  merit. 

But,  if  I  was  blinded  in  regard  to  the  honor  which 
Plum  reflected  on  myself,  some  remarkable  instances 
of  its  influence  on  others  did  not  escape  me.  I  re 
collect  on  one  occasion  to  have  been  struck  with  it 
at  Almack's.  In  general,  the  display  of  beauty  there  is 
beyond  all  praise.  An  American  would  say  the  ladies 
were  too  stout  and  ruddy,  and  too  heavily  dressed. 
But  let  that  pass.  The  music  had  ceased  for  a  moment, 
and  the  places  where  the  quadrilles  had  an  instant 
before  been  figuring,  were  accidentally  vacant.  There 
then  appeared  a  couple  so  grotesque  as  to  put  descrip 
tion  to  the  blush.  A  thin,  miserly,  snuffy  little  man  led 


12  MY      FRIEND      PLUM. 

forward  the  hugest  woman  I  ever  beheld.  She  had  large, 
lead-colored  eyes;  a  low,  overhanging  forehead,  with 
a  conical  piece  of  her  under  lip  lapping  over  her  upper 
one,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  drawn  downward  ;  long 
ears,  standing  apart  from  the  head  ;  a  large  jowl,  and 
a  figure  that,  in  despite  of  the  London  Cantellos,  re 
sembled  a  pipe  of  brandy.  There  was  a  mark  of 
monstrous  vulgarity  about  the  pair,  which,  with  now 
and  then  an  exception,  seemed  to  contrast  strangely 
with  all  around. 

At  the  first  appearance  of  this  odd  couple,  there 
was  a  look  of  general  surprise,  and  then  a  smile,  and 
here  and  there  an  audible  titter.  But  soon  it  was  all 
hushed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fudge  seemed  to  be  honored 
with  particular  and  respectful  attention.  "How  is 
this?"  said  I  to  Lady  Flambeau.  "  O,"  said  she, 
"  do  n't  you  know  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  your 
friend  Plum  ?  " 

In  short,  I  had  not  spent  six  months  in  England 
before  I  discovered  that  my  extraordinary  guardian  had 
scarcely  less  influence  than  the  prime  minister.  Indeed, 
he  did  that  which  the  king  himself  could  not  have  per 
formed.  The  world  would  laugh  at  Sir  William  Curtis, 
though  George  the  Fourth  was  his  companion  and 
friend.  But  who  could  despise  a  favorite  of  Plum? 
His  friendship  was  only  inferior  to  a  patent  of  nobility. 
It  covered  faults  and  magnified  virtues.  It  even  became 
superior  to  the  force  of  nature.  I  once  saw  a  very  ugly 
young  woman  dancing  most  vilely.  "  She  is  an  angel," 
said  one.  "  She  dances  like  a  fairy,"  said  another. 
"  She  is  the  particular  friend  of  Plum  !  "  said  a  third. 


MY      FRIEND      PLUM.  13 

I  left  England  and  went  to  France.  In  Paris,  my 
guardian  seemed  less  at  home.  But  here  he  was  by 
no  means  destitute  of  influence.  He  could  persuade 
a  Frenchman  to  do  any  thing  but  jump  into  the 
Seine.  » 

I  set  out  for  Italy.  In  crossing  the  Alps  I  was 
attacked  by  banditti.  I  fought  valiantly,  but  in  vain. 
I  was  wounded,  overpowered,  and  beat  down.  A 
swarthy  villain,  with  black  mustachios,  planted  his 
heavy  foot  on  my  breast,  and  with  a  brawny  arm, 
held  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  a  pistol  presented  to 
my  forehead.  The  slightest  contraction  of  a  muscle 
had  scattered  my  brains  in  the  air.  At  this  instant, 
luckily,  Plum  presented  himself.  He  went  on  the  prin 
ciple  that  discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor.  He 
threw  away  my  powder  and  ball,  and  settled  the  point 
by  negotiation.  It  was  all  over  in  fifteen  minutes. 
The  desperado  became  our  friend,  guided  us  faithfully 
over  the  mountain,  and  at  parting  gave  me  warm 
wishes  of  happiness. 

I  could  tell  other  tales,  but  this  is  enough.  I  re 
turned  to  my  country  after  an  absence  of  two  years, 
bringing  my  friend  with  me.  His  influence  was  not 
abated.  The  men  sought  my  society,  and  the  ladies 
smiled  upon  me  for  his  sake.  I  took  it  all  to  myself, 
indeed ;  and  when  an  honest  man  told  me  that  I  was  a 
fool  for  doing  so,  I  became  angry,  and  bade  him  hold 
his  peace.  I  again  fell  in  love.  I  had  a  streak  of 
weakness  in  my  character,  which  exposed  me  to  such 
fantasies.  I  loved  devotedly,  and  thought  my  passion 
was  truly  returned.  "  May  I  speak  my  mind  freely  to 

2* 


14  MY      FRIEND      PLUM. 

you  ? "  said  a  candid  friend.  "  Certainly,"  said  I. 
"  The  lady  does  not  love  you,"  said  he.  "  You  are 
mistaken,"  said  I.  "  It  is  not  you,  but  your  friend 
Plum,  that  she  is  enamored  with ;  it  is  only  to  secure 
his  society,  that  she  seems  to  favor  you."  "  She  is 
incapable  of  such  double-dealing,"  said  I.  "  It  is  the 
fashion  of  the  world,"  said  he.  "  Plum  is  a  great 
favorite  of  the  sex,  and  they  will  smile  on  the  first  man 
that  brings  them  close  to  him.  You  are  his  particular 
friend,  and  are  therefore  an  object  of  regard  to  all  the 
calculating  mothers  and  daughters  in  town."  I  felt 
too  secure  to  be  angry.  I  laughed  at  my  friend,  and 
turned  his  advice  to  ridicule. 

But  let  me  proceed  in  my  story.  A  meddling 
attorney  endeavored  to  bring  about  a  separation  be 
tween  me  and  Plum.  He  was  at  first  unsuccessful, 
but  by  trick  and  artifice  he  at  length  gained  his  point. 
Plum  deserted  me  for  ever.  I  mourned  over  him. 
"  But  mourning,"  said  I,  "  is  vain.  I  am  myself  the 
same  thing  as  before.  I  have  lost  a  friend,  but  that  is 
no  part  of  myself."  I  flew  to  my  mistress.  "  She 
will  sympathize  with  me,"  thought  I,  "  and  O,  there 
will  be  a  sweetness  in  seeing  her  tears  fall  for  my 
sake,  that  will  atone  for  my  loss."  But  I  was  mis 
taken.  She  refused  to  see  me.  I  was  enraged.  I 
stamped  on  the  floor.  The  servant  laughed,  and 
pointed  to  the  door.  I  went  away,  and  wept,  in  the 
bitterness  of  my  heart,  like  a  very  boy.  I  went  to  see 
some  of  my  companions.  They  were  cold  and  con 
strained.  I  visited  some  of  the  families  where  I  was 
once  a  favorite.  They  were  civil,  but  the  hearty  wel- 


MY      FRIEND      PLUM.  15 

come  of  the  mother,  and  the  gracious  attentions  of  the 
daughters,  were  mine  no  more. 

I  shrunk  from  society  like  a  wounded  beast  of  prey, 
who  alone  in  his  lair  endures  his  throbbing  pain.  I 
cursed  the  heartless  world,  and  bitterly  moralized  on 
the  selfishness  of  those  I  had  thought  the  fairest  and 
noblest  part  of  creation.  I  am  still  writhing  with  dis 
appointment,  and  under  its  influence  address  this  letter 
to  the  tender  hearted,  partly  to  give  vent  to  my  feel 
ings,  and  partly  to  obtain  the  sympathy  of  those  who 
have  sympathy  to  bestow  on  the  forlorn. 

NOTE.  —  "  Plum,  the  sum  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
in  the  cant  of  London."  —  Johnson. 


BIRTHNIGHT  OF  THE  HUMMING  BIRDS. 


I. 

I 'LL  tell  you  a  fairy  tale  that's  new  — 
How  the  merry  Elves  o'er  the  ocean  flew, 
From  the  Emerald  isle  to  this  far-off  shore, 
As  they  were  wont  in  the 'days  of  yore  — 
And  played  their  pranks  one  moonlit  night, 
Where  the  zephyrs  alone  could  see  the  sight. 

ii. 

Ere  the  Old  world  yet  had  found  the  New, 
The  faries  oft  in  their  frolics  flew, 
To  the  fragrant  isles  of  the  Carribee  — 
Bright  bosom  gems  of  a  golden  sea. 
Too  dark  was  the  film  of  the  Indian's  eye, 
These  gossamer  sprites  to  suspect  or  spy,  — 
So  they  danced  'mid  the  spicy  groves  unseen, 
And  mad  were  their  merry  pranks,  I  ween ; 
For  the  fairies,  like  other  discreet  little  elves, 
Are  freest  and  fondest  when  all  by  themselves. 
No  thought  had  they  that  in  after  time, 
The  muse  would  echo  their  deeds  in  rhyme ; 
So  gaily  doffing  light  stocking  and  shoe, 
They  tripped  o'er  the  meadow  all  dappled  in  dew. 
I  could  tell,  if  I  would,  some  right  merry  tales, 


BIRTH  NIGHT     OF     THE     HUMMING    BIRDS.       17 

Of  unslippered  fairies  that  danced  in  the  vales  — 
But  the  lovers  of  scandal  I  leave  in  the  lurch  — 
And,  beside,  these  eleves  do  n't  belong  to  the  church. 
If  they  danced  —  be  it  known  —  't  was  not  in  the  clime 
Of  your   Mathers   and  Hookers,  where  laughter  was 

crime ;  , 

Where  sentinel  virtue  kept  guard  o'er  the  lip, 
Though  witchcraft  stole  into  the  heart  by  a  slip ! 
Oh  no !  't  was  the  land  of  the  fruit  and  the  flower  — 
Where  summer  and  spring  both  dwelt  in  one  bower  — 
Where  one  hung  the  citron,  all  ripe  from  the  bough, 
And  the  other  with  blossoms  encircled  its  brow,  — 
Where  the  mountains  embosomed  rich  tissues  of  gold, 
And  the  rivers  o'er  rubies  and  emeralds  rolled. 
It  was  there,  where  the  seasons  came  only  to  bless, 
And  the  fashions  of  Eden  still  lingered,  in  dress, 
That  these  gay  little  fairies  were  wont,  as  I  say, 
To  steal  in  their  merriest  gambols  away. 
But  dropping  the  curtain  o'er  frolic  and  fun, 
Too  good  to  be  told,  or  too  bad  to  be  done, 
I  give  you  a  legend  from  Fancy's  own  sketch, 
Though  I  warn  you  he  's  given  to  fibbing  —  the  wretch ! 
But  I  learn  by  the  legends  of  breezes  and  brooks, 
'T  is  as  true  as  the  fairy  tales  told  in  the  books. 

in. 

One  night  when  the  moon  shone  fair  on  the  main, 
Choice  spirits  were  gathered  'twixt  Derry  and  Spain, 
And  lightly  embarking  from  Erin's  bold  cliffs, 
They  slid  o'er  the  wave  in  their  moonbeam  skiffs. 
A  ray  for  a  rudder  —  a  thought  for  a  sail, 


18     BIRTHNIGHT     OF     THE     HUMMING     BIRDS. 

Swift,  swift  was  each  bark  as  the  wing  of  the  gale. 

Yet  long  were  the  tale,  should  I  linger  to  say 

What  gambol  and  frolic  enlivened  the  way  — 

How  they  flirted  with  bubbles  that  danced  on  the  wave, 

Or  listened  to  mermaids  that  sang  from  the  cave  — 

Or  slid  with  the  moonbeams  down  deep  to  the  grove 

Of  coral,  "  where  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove  "  — 

How  there,  in  long  vistas  of  silence  and  sleep, 

They  waltzed,  as  if  mocking  the  death  of  the  deep  : 

How,  oft,  where  the  wreck  lay  scattered  and  torn, 

They  peeped  in  the  scull  —  now  ghastly  and  lorn ; 

Or  deep,  'mid  wild  rocks,  quizzed  the  goggling  shark, 

And  mouthed  at  the  sea-wolf — so  solemn  and  stark  — 

Each  seeming  to  think  that  the  earth  and  the  sea 

Were  made  but  for  fairies  —  for  gambol  and  glee ! 

Enough,  that  at  last  they  came  to  the  isle, 

Where  moonlight  and  fragrance  were  rivals  the  while. 

Not  yet  had  those  vessels  from  Palos  been  here, 

To  turn  the  bright  gem  to  the  blood-mingled  tear. 

Oh  no !  still  blissful  and  peaceful  the  land,  — 

And  the  merry  elves  flew  from  the  sea  to  the  strand. 

Right  happy  and  joyous  seemed  now  the  bright  crew, 

As  they  tripped  'mid  the  orange  groves  flashing  in  dew, 

For  they  were  to  hold  a  revel  that  night, 

A  gay  fancy  ball,  and  each  to  be  dight 

In  the  gem  or  the  flower  that  fancy  might  choose 

From  mountain  or  vale,  for  its  fragrance  or  hues. 

IV. 

Away  sped  the  maskers  like  arrows  of  light 
To  gather  their  gear  for  the  revel  bright. 


BIRTH  NIGHT     OP     THE     HUMMING     BIRDS.      19 

To  the  dazzling  peaks  of  far-off  Peru, 

In  emulous  speed  some  sportively  flew  — 

And  deep  in  the  mine,  or  'mid  glaciers  on  high, 

For  ruby  and  sapphire  searched  heedful  and  sly. 

For  diamonds  rare  that  gleam  in  the  bed 

Of  Brazilian  streams,  some  merrily  sped, 

While  others  for  topaz  and  emerald  stray, 

'Mid  the  cradle  cliffs  of  the  Paraguay. 

As  these  are  gathering  the  rarest  of  gems, 

Others  are  plucking  the  rarest  of  stems. 

They  range  wild  dells  where  the  zephyr  alone, 

To  the  blushing  blossoms  before  was  known ; 

Through  forests  they  fly,  whose  branches  are  hung 

By  creeping  plants,  with  fair  flowerets  strung  — 

Where  temples  of  nature  with  arches  of  bloom, 

Are  lit  by  the  moonlight,  and  faint  with  perfume. 

They  stray  where  the  mangrove  and  clematis  twine, 

Where  azalia  and  laurel  in  rivalry  shine ; 

Where,  tall  as  the  oak,  the  passion-tree  glows, 

And  jasmine  is  blent  with  rhodora  and  rose. 

O'er  blooming  savannas  and  meadows  of  light, 

'Mid  regions  of  summer  they  sweep  in  their  flight  — 

And  gathering  the  fairest,  they  speed  to  their  bower, 

Each  one  with  his  favorite  brilliant  or  flower. 

v. 

The  hour  is  come,  and  the  fairies  are  seen 
In  their  plunder  arrayed  on  the  moonlit  green. 
The  music  is  breathed  —  't  is  a  soft  strain  of  pleasure, 
And  the  light  giddy  throng  whirl  into  the  measure. 
'Twas  a  joyous  dance,  and  the  dresses  were  bright, 


20      BIRTH  NIGHT     OF     THE     HUMMING     BIRDS. 

Such  as  never  were  known  till  that  famous  night ; 

For  the  gems  and  the  flowers  that  shone  in  the  scene, 

O'ermatched  the  regalia  of  princess  and  queen. 

No  gaudy  slave  to  a  fair  one's  brow 

Was  the  rose,  or  the  ruby,  or  emerald  now  — 

But  lighted  with  souls  by  the  playful  elves, 

The  brilliants  and  blossoms  seemed  dancing  themselves. 

VI. 

Of  all  that  did  chance,  't  were  a  long  tale  to  tell, 
Of  the  dresses  and  waltzes,  and  who  was  the  belle  — 
But  each  was  so  happy,  and  all  were  so  fair, 
That  night  stole  away  and  the  dawn  caught  them  there ! 
Such  a  scampering  never  before  was  seen 
As  the  fairies'  flight  on  that  island  green. 
They  rushed  to  the  bay  with  twinkling  feet, 
But  vain  was  their  haste,  for  the  moonlight  fleet 
Had  passed  with  the  dawn,  and  never  again 
Were  those  fairies  permitted  to  traverse  the  main,  — 
But  'mid  the  groves,  when  the  sun  was  high, 
The  Indian  marked  with  a  worshipping  eye, 
The  HUMMING  BIRDS,  all  unknown  before, 
Glancing  like  thoughts  from  flower  to  flower, 
And  seeming  as  if  earth's  loveliest  things, 
The  brilliants  and  blossoms,  had  taken  wings :  — 
And  fancy  hath  whispered  in  numbers  light, 
That  these  are  the  fairies  who  danced  that  night, 
And  linger  yet  in  the  garb  they  wore, 
Content  in  our  clime,  and  more  blest  than  before ! 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED. 

WHAT  are  dreams  —  illusions  of  fancy  or  suggestions 
of  prophecy  ?  fleeting  visions  which  pass  over  the  mind, 
like  clouds  across  a  still  lake,  traceless  and  trackless, 
meaning  nothing  and  teaching  nothing  1  —  or  are  they 
shadows  of  coining  events,  light  and  transient  as  the 
mountain  mist,  but,  like  that,  foretelling  the  storm  or 
sunshine  that  is  to  follow?  These  are  doubts  which 
the  philosophy  of  ages  hath  not  been  able  to  solve. 
Our  story  may,  perhaps,  throw  some  light  upon  the 
misty  question. 

Vivian  was  a  youth  envied  by  all  around  him  as  the 
favorite  of  fortune.  He  was  rich,  accomplished,  hand 
some,  and  beloved ;  but  alas !  he  was  not  happy.  He 
felt  the  want  of  something  which  he  could  not  define ; 
there  was  a  void  in  his  spirit  which  he  did  not  know 
how  to  supply.  He  looked  abroad  in  nature,  and  felt 
its  beauties  with  a  vivacity  almost  amounting  to  rap 
ture  ;  but  an  uneasy  sense  of  privation  remained.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  something  lost,  or  some 
thing  not  yet  found,  which  was  indispensable  to  his 
peace.  He  rose  with  the  dawn,  and  ascended  to  the 
top  of  the  highest  hills,  and  looked  over  the  broad  land- 
I  scape.  In  the  silver  rivulet,  the  waving  meadow,  the 
!  sloping  woods,  the  azure  mountain,  the  golden  morn- 


22  THE      DREAM      FULFILLED. 

ing,  —  in  all  around  him  he  saw  objects  to  delight,  but 
none  to  satisfy  him.  Day  after  day  he  returned  to  his 
home,  with  the  reflection,  "  These  are  indeed  beautiful, 
but  they  only  persuade  me  that  there  is  yet  something 
better  than  these." 

One  evening,  as  he  was  returning  from  his  rambles, 
he  approached  the  dwelling  of  a  humble  cottager,  dis 
tinguished  for  his  worth  and  wisdom.  He  was  aged, 
and,  possessing  no  other  fortune  than  a  daughter  of 
sixteen  years,  he  still  deemed  himself  rich,  for  she  was 
dutiful,  intelligent,  and  lovely.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night,  and  the  moonbeams  were  woven  with  thick 
clusters  of  jessamine  over  the  door  and  windows  of  the 
cottage.  A  sweet  voice  was  heard.  Vivian  paused. 
It  was  the  daughter  of  the  cottager  singing.  Her  lay 
run  thus : 

At  misty  dawn,  at  rosy  morn, 

The  redbreast  sings  alone  — 
At  twilight  dim,  still,  still  his  hymn 

Hath  a  sad  and  sorrowing  tone. 

Another  day  his  song  is  gay, 

For  a  listening  bird  is  near  — 
O  ye  who  sorrow,  come  borrow,  borrow 

A  lesson  of  robin  here  ! 

Vivian  frequently  visited  the  cottage,  and  was  ever  a 
welcome  guest  there.  As  he  entered  it,  Ellen,  the 
cottage  girl,  met  him  and  conducted  him  to  her  father. 
As  he  sat  conversing  with  the  good  old  man,  his  eyes 
stole  often  to  the  beaming  face  of  the  daughter.  While 
he  gazed  upon  her,  her  glance  met  his ;  her  eyes  were  ! 


THE      DREAM      FULFILLED.  23 

cast  upon  the  ground,  and  the  hues  that  came  to  her 
cheek  were  those  which  sunset  throws  upon  a  white 
cloud.  Vivian  experienced  strange  and  bewildering 
emotions,  but  he  could  not  account  for  them.  It  did 
not  enter  his  imagination  that  a  simple  cottage  maiden 
could  possess  influence  over  the  rich  heir  of  a  high  and 
haughty  family. 

He  returned  home,  still  less  happy  than  before.  Rest 
less  and  perplexed,  he  retired  to  his  sleeping  apartment, 
and  threw  himself  upon  his  pillow.  But  it  was  long  ere 
he  could  sleep.  If  for  a  moment  he  lost  himself  in 
slumber,  a  multitude  of  images  passed  before  him,  half 
real  and  half  imaginary,  now  thrilling  him  with  pleas 
ure,  and  then  startling  him  with  affright.  At  length, 
wearied  and  exhausted,  he  fell  asleep.  When  he 
awoke,  he  was  deeply  impressed  with  a  dream,  the 
outlines  only  of  which  he  could  recall.  It  seemed  that 
he  had  been  favored  with  the  presence  of  the  object 
which  he  sought.  It  had  filled  him  with  delight ;  and 
while  still  awake,  his  nerves  thrilled  with  exquisite 
emotions.  But  the  name  and  form  of  this  object  he 
could  not  bring  back  to  his  memory.  Whether,  in 
deed,  it  had  visited  him  as  a  thing  of  sight  or  sound,  he 
could  not  tell.  It  seemed  at  one  moment  to  be  a  being 
of  form ;  and,  as  his  fancy  strove  to  recover  the  fleeting 
image,  it  would  hover  to  his  eye  and  then  disappear. 
Then  some  faint  strain  of  recollected  melody  would 
appear  to  be  the  thing  he  had  lost ;  but  as  he  pursued 
it,  it  melted  away.  All  that  remained  definite  and  cer 
tain  in  his  mind,  was  an  impression  that  the  object 
necessary  to  his  happiness  had  visited  his  imagination 


24  THE      DREAM      FULFILLED. 

in  sleep,  bringing  with  it  all  the  charms  of  beauty  and 
melody,  and  casting  around  his  spirit  a  spell  of  strange 
and  enthralling  power. 

But,  fancying  that  he  had  now  a  clue  to  the  mystery 
which  had  seemed  to  involve  his  existence,  Vivian  de 
termined  to  unravel  it  in  a  practical  manner.     He  was 
I  persuaded  that  if  he  were  to  meet  the  being  of  his 
dream,  he  should  instantly  recognize  it,  and  thus  dis 
cover  the  secret  of  his  happiness.     He  resolved  there 
fore  to  travel,  and  scrutinize  every  thing  that  came 
\  within  his  observation. 

We  cannot  follow  him  through  all  his  wanderings. 
j  He  visited  foreign  cities,  and  mingled  in  the  gay  world 
;  of  fashion.  He  examined  the  various  institutions  of  the 
!  countries  through  which  he  passed,  saw  remarkable 
edifices  and  localities,  scanned  paintings  and  statues, 
;  sought  out  the  picturesque,  ascended  Mont  Blanc  for 
I  the  sublime,  and  ranged  the  hills  of  Scotland  for  the 
I  romantic.  In  short,  he  made  the  great  tour,  and  saw 
!  whatever  a  traveller  should  see. 

In  two  years  he  came  back  to  his  native  country, 
improved  in  knowledge  and  refined  in  manners ;  but  a 
melancholy  shade  upon  his  countenance  declared  that 
he  had  not  found  the  object  of  his  pursuit.  Often,  in 
deed,  had  he  appeared  for  a  moment,  about  to  discover 
the  image  which  came  in  his  dream,  but  suddenly  the 
subtile  thread  by  which  he  held  it,  was  broken,  and  the 
resemblance  flew  away  like  a  startled  bird.  Yet  every 
thing  seemed  to  remind  him  of  what  he  sought.  In  the 
look  of  some  dark-haired  girl  of  Savoy  —  in  the  glance 
of  a  blue-eyed  shepherdess  of  the  Rhine  —  in  the  soft 


THE      DREAM      FULFILLED.  25 

language  of  a  French  maiden,  or  the  ringing  laugh  of 
an  English  one  —  in  the  low,  unearthly  notes  of  an 
JEolian  harp  —  in  the  touching  melody  of  musical 
glasses  —  in  the  voice  of  Madame  Pasta,  and  in  that  of 
Mademoiselle  Sontag  —  in  the  Sibyl  of  Dominichino  — 
in  the  Venus  de  Medici  —  in  mountains  and  rivers  — 
in  the  blue  air  —  the  tinted  cloud  —  the  prismatic  bow 
—  in  lakes  and  lawns  —  in  nature  and  art  —  in  whatever 
gave  him  pleasure,  there  was  something  to  restore  his 
dream;  something  invisibly  and  mysteriously  associated 
with  the  subject  of  it.  Yet  while  every  thing  around 
him  was  thus  stamped  with  its  fresh  footprints,  its  wing 
rustling  in  every  breeze,  its  image  dwelling  in  all  that 
was  beautiful,  and  its  voice  mingling  in  all  that  was 
melodious,  still,  still  the  evanescent  being  eluded  his 
grasp,  and  cheated  his  pursuit. 

He  had  been  at  home  but  a  single  day,  when,  as  if 
by  accident,  he  found  himself  approaching  the  cottage 
we  have  described.  It  was  evening,  and  the  moon 
shone  as  before  upon  the  jessamine,  when  he  last  visited 
it.  Again  he  heard  the  voice  of  Ellen  —  again  he 
paused  and  listened.  It  was  again  the  song  of  the  red 
breast  that  she  was  singing.  A  rush  of  recollections 
came  to  his  mind.  "  This,"  said  he,  "  is  surely  the 
music  of  my  dream."  He  hastened  to  the  cottage. 
Ellen  met  him  at  the  door  —  and  Vivian  instantly 
recognized  in  her  the  heroine  of  his  vision ! 

Let  not  the  reader  say  that  our  story  is  improbable. 
Vivian  is  not  the  only  one  who  has  been  the  subject  of 
a  dominion  that  reigns  for  a  time  over  every  pulse,  lives 
in  every  avenue  to  the  heart,  and  by  the  legerdemain  of 


26 


THE      DREAM      FULFILLED. 


youthful  fancy,  renders  one  object  the  seeming  fountain 
from  which  all  pleasures  flow.  In  short,  there  are 
others,  as  well  as  he,  who  have  seen  analogies  in  things 
as  unlike  as  a  rainbow  and  a  pretty  girl ! 

We  need  not  tell  the  rest.  The  lovers  were  married, 
and  Vivian  and  Ellen  consider  their  union  as  a  happy 
fulfilment  of  a  remarkable  dream.  And  so  long  as 
dreams  are  prompted  by  the  wishes  and  purposes 
of  lovers,  it  is  probable  that  events  may  render  them 
prophetic. 


THE  CAYE  OP  DIAMONDS. 

THERE  was  once  a  Prince  of  Persia,  who  became  the 
subject  of  an  intense  desire  of  wealth.  His  thoughts 
were  perpetually  running  upon  silver  and  gold  and  pre 
cious  stones.  Instead  of  cultivating  his  mind  or  quali 
fying  himself  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  high  destiny, 
he  was  always  considering  in  what  way  he  could  be 
come  rich.  At  length  having  heard  of  the  mines  of 
Siberia,  he  determined  to  travel  thither,  in  the  hope  of 
satisfying  his  desires.  Accordingly  he  proceeded  to 
the  Kolyvan  mountains,  but  finding  that  already  there 
were  many  persons  there,  engaged  in  searching  for  gold 
and  precious  stones,  he  went  farther  east,  till  he  came 
to  a  tall  mountain  called  the  Schlangenberg,  which  is 
the  loftiest  of  the  Altai  range,  and  much  celebrated  for 
its  mineral  treasures. 

When  he  had  reached  the  very  top  of  the  mountain, 
being  weary,  he  laid  himself  down  to  obtain  some  re 
pose,  and  here  he  fell  asleep.  While  in  this  state,  a 
man,  in  the  dress  of  a  Tartar,  seemed  to  stand  before 
him,  and,  making  a  low  bow  in  the  Eastern  fashion,  he 
said,  "  What  would' st  thou,  son  of  a  royal  house?"  To 
this  the  young  Persian  replied  —  "Wealth  —  give  me 
wealth,  such  as  may  become  a  prince.  Give  me  gold, 
silver  and  precious  stones,  and  in  such  abundance 


28  THE      CAVE      OF      DIAMONDS. 

that  I  may  excite  the  envy  of  all  the  princes  of  the 
East !" 

"  And  why  do  you  desire  riches  1"  said  the  mysterious 
stranger. 

"  It  will  give  me  happiness,"  said  the  prince. 

"  Thou  mayest  be  mistaken,"  was  the  reply ;  "  wealth 
cannot  confer  happiness,  unless  the  mind  be  prepared 
for  its  use.  The  mind  may  be  likened  to  the  soil,  and 
riches  to  the  sun :  the  former  must  be  tilled  and  cultivated 
and  the  seed  sown,  or  the  latter  will  only  scorch  and 
wither  it  like  a  desert." 

"Nay — nay,"  said  the  prince,  "give  me  riches  —  give 
me  gold — give  me  diamonds!  I  ask  for  nothing  more." 

When  the  young  man  said  this,  the  image  smiled 
on  one  side  of  his  face,  and  frowned  on  the  other ;  but 
he  answered  fairly,  —  "  Your  wish  shall  be  granted:  fol 
low  me !"  Upon  this  the  prince  arose  and  followed  the 
stranger.  They  descended  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
and  entered  a  cave  which  was  formed  by  nature  in  the 
rocks.  It  seemed  at  first  a  dark  and  gloomy  room,  with 
grizzly  images  around,  and  a  fearful  roar  as  of  mighty 
waterfalls,  tumbling  amid  the  gashes  and  ravines  of  the 
cavern.  But  as  they  advanced  farther,  the  scene  grad 
ually  changed.  The  darkness  disappeared,  and  at  last 
they  came  to  a  vast  chamber,  which  seemed  glittering 
with  thousands  of  lamps.  The  room  appeared  indeed 
like  a  forest  turned  to  crystal,  the  branches  above  unit 
ing  and  forming  a  lofty  roof,  in  the  gothic  form.  No 
thing  could  exceed  the  splendor  of  the  scene.  The 
floor  was  strewn  with  precious  stones  of  every  hue,  and 
diamonds  of  immense  size  and  beauty  shone  around. 


THE      CAVE      OF      DIAMONDS.  29 

As  the  adventurer  trod  among  them,  they  clashed 
against  his  feet  as  if  he  were  marching  amid  heaps  of 
pebbles.  There  were  thousands  of  lofty  columns,  of  a 
pearly  transparency,  which  seemed  to  send  forth  an  illu 
mination  like  that  of  the  moon  ;  and  these  were  studded 
with  amethysts,  and  emeralds,  and  rubies. 

The  prince  was  delighted  —  nay,  entranced.  He 
walked  along  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  still  the  vast 
room  seemed  to  expand  and  grow  more  gorgeous  as  he 
proceeded.  The  diamonds  were  larger,  and  the  light 
more  lovely,  and  by-and-by  there  came  a  sound  of  music. 
It  was  faint,  but  delicious ;  and  our  hero  looked  around 
for  the  cause  of  it.  At  last  he  saw  what  seemed  a  river, 
and  on  going  to  the  border  of  it,  he  discovered  that  it  was 
a  stream  of  precious  stones,  where  garnets,  and  beryls, 
and  diamonds,  and  emeralds,  and  rubies,  flowed  like 
drops  of  water,  in  one  gushing,  flashing  current ;  and  as 
they  swept  along,  a  sort  of  gentle  but  entrancing  melody 
stole  out  from  them,  and  seemed  to  melt  the  heart  with 
their  tones. 

"  This  is  indeed  most  lovely  —  most  enchanting!"  said 
the  youth  to  himself.  "  Well  and  truly  has  my  guide 
performed  his  promise."  Saying  this,  he  looked  around 
for  his  companion,  and  behold,  he  was  at  his  side.  "  Thou 
art  now,"  said  the  spirit,  "  in  the  Cave  of  Diamonds  — 
take  what  thou  wilt  —  all  is  at  thy  command  !"  Saying 
this  the  stranger  vanished.  Delighted  with  the  permis 
sion  to  take  what  he  desired,  the  prince  went  to  the 
river  of  precious  stones,  and  gathered  the  purest  and 
fairest  that  he  could  find.  He  soon  loaded  himself 
down  with  diamonds  and  emeralds  and  rubies,  each  one 


OU  THE      CAVE      OF      DIAMONDS. 

of  which  was  worthy  of  being  set  in  a  prince's  crown. 
With  his  precious  burden,  he  now  continued  to  roam 
through  the  cave,  often  stooping  to  pick  up  some  gem 
that  outshone  the  rest  among  which  it  lay.  At  length  he 
began  to  feel  weary,  and  cast  about  for  a  place  to  lie 
down ;  but  no  such  place  appeared.  The  floor  of  the 
mighty  hall  was  covered  with  precious  stones,  but  they 
were  so  angular  and  sharp  that  they  would  have  cut  his 
flesh,  if  he  had  attempted  to  repose  upon  them.  In  a 
short  time  hunger  was  added  to  the  prince's  wants;  but 
how  could  he  satisfy  it?  There  were  emeralds,  and 
rubies,  and  sapphires,  and  diamonds,  but  neither  meat 
nor  bread.  At  last  he  turned  round,  and  began  to 
search  for  the  way  out  of  the  grotto ;  still  continuing  to 
pick  up  rich  and  rare  gems,  as  they  came  in  his  way.  But 
the  more  he  sought  for  the  passage,  the  more  remote  he 
seemed  to  be  from  it.  He,  however,  continued  to  wan 
der  on,  but  all  in  vain.  Finally  he  became  frantic;  he 
threw  up  his  hands,  and  tore  his  hair,  and  ran  fiercely 
from  place  to  place,  making  the  arches  ring  with  his 
frightful  screams.  "  Take  your  gems,  take  your  jewels !" 
said  he,  "  and  give  me  rest,  give  me  bread !"  And,  re 
peating  this  by  night  and  by  day,  the  young  prince  con 
tinued  to  run  wildly  from  place  to  place;  and  though 
fifty  years  have  rolled  away  since  he  entered  the  en 
chanted  cave,  he  is  still  there,  and  is  still  unable  to  ob 
tain  rest  or  appease  his  hunger  !  Though  he  has  acquired 
wealth  beyond  the  suggestions  of  fancy,  he  is  unable 
to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  nature ;  and  though  in  the 
midst  of  uncounted  treasure,  even  rest  and  repose,  which 
are  enjoyed  by  the  beggar,  are  denied  to  him. 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS. 


ft 

As  a  shadow  He  flew,  but  sorrow  and  wail 
Came  up  from  his  path,  like  the  moan  of  the  gale. 
His  quiver  was  full,  though  his  arrows  fell  fast 
As  the  sharp  hail  of  winter  when  urged  by  the  blast. 
He  smiled  on  each  shaft  as  it  flew  from  the  string, 
Though  feathered  by  fate,  and  the  lightning  its  wing. 
Unerring,  unsparing,  it  sped  to  its  mark, 
As  the  mandate  of  destiny,  certain  and  dark. 
The  mail  of  the  warrior  it  severed  in  twain,  — 
The  wall  of  the  castle  it  shivered  amain. 
No  shield  could  shelter,  no  prayer  could  save, 
And  love's  holy  shrine  no  immunity  gave. 
A  babe  in  the  cradle  —  its  mother  bent  o'er, — 
The  arrow  is  sped,  —  and  that  babe  is  no  more ! 
At  the  faith-plighting  altar,  a  lovely  one  bows,  — 
The  gem  on  her  finger,  —  in  Heaven  her  vows; 
Unseen  is  the  blow,  but  she  sinks  in  the  crowd, 
And  her  bright  wedding-garment  is  turned  to  a  shroud  ! 

ii. 

On  flew  the  Destroyer,  o'er  mountain  and  main, — 
And  where  there  was  life,  there,  there  are  the  slain ! 
No  valley  so  deep,  no  islet  so  lone, 
But  his  shadow  is  cast,  and  his  victims  are  known. 


32  THE      KING      OF      TERRORS. 

He  paused  not,  though  years  rolled  weary  and  slow, 
And  Time's  hoary  pinion  drooped  languid  and  low. 
He  paused  not  till  Man  from  his  birthplace  was  swept, 
And  the  sea  and  the  land  in  solitude  slept. 

in. 

On  a  mountain  he  stood,  for  the  struggle  was  done,  — 
A  smile  on  his  lip  for  the  victory  won. 
The  city  of  millions,  —  lone  islet  and  cave, 
The  home  of  the  hermit,  —  all  earth  was  a  grave ! 
The  last  of  his  race,  where  the  first  saw  the  light, 
The  monarch  had  met,  and  triumphed  in  fight :  — 
Swift,  swift  was  the  steed,  o'er  Araby's  sand, 
But  swifter  the  arrow  that  flew  from  Death's  hand. 

IV. 

O'er  the  mountain  he  seems  like  a  tempest  to  lower, 
Triumphant  and  dark  in  the  fulness  of  power; 
And  flashes  of  flame,  that  play  round  his  crest, 
Bespeak  the  fierce  lightning  that  glows  in  his  breast. 
But  a  vision  of  wonder  breaks  now  on  his  sight; 
The  blue  vault  of  heaven  is  gushing  with  light, 
And,  facing  the  tyrant,  a  form  from  the  sky 
Returns  the  fierce  glance  of  his  challenging  eye. 
A  moment  they  pause,  —  two  princes  of  might, — 
The  Demon  of  Darkness,  —  an  Angel  of  Light ! 
Each  gazes  on  each,  —  no  barrier  between  — 
And  the  quivering  rocks  shrink  aghast  from  the  scene ! 
The  sword  of  the  angel  waves  free  in  the  air ; 
Death  looks  to  his  quiver,  —  no  arrow  is  there! 
He  falls  like  a  pyramid,  crumbled  and  torn ; 


THE     KING     OF     TERRORS.  33 

And  a  vision  of  light  on  his  dying  eye  borne, 
In  glory  reveals  the  blest  souls  of  the  slain,  — 
And  he  sees  that  his  sceptre  was  transient  and  vain ; 
For,  'mid  the  bright  throng,  e'en  the  infant  he  slew, 
And  the  altar-struck  bride,  beam  full  on  the  view ! 


THE  SHOOL  BOY'S  SATURDAY. 

IT  is  a  trite  remark  that  youth  is  the  happiest  portion 
of  life,  but,  like  many  other  wise  sayings,  it  passes  by 
us  unheeded,  till,  at  some  late  period  in  the  great  jour 
ney,  we  look  back  upon  our  track,  and  by  a  compari 
son  of  the  past  with  the  present,  are  forced  to  feel  and 
confess  the  truth,  which  we  have  before  doubted  or  con 
temned.  Mankind  are  ever  tempted  to  think  that  there 
is  something  better  in  the  future  than  is  afforded  by  the 
present;  if  they  are  not  happy  yet,  they  still  indulge 
bright  anticipations.  They  are  reluctant,  even  when 
advanced  in  years,  to  believe  that  the  noon  of  life's  joy 
is  past ;  that  the  chill  of  evening  is  already  mingling  in 
every  breeze  that  feeds  the  breath;  that  there  is  no 
returning  morn  to  them ;  that  the  course  of  the  sun  is 
now  only  downward  ;  and  that  sunset  is  the  final  close 
of  the  day  that  has  dawned  upon  them,  and  lighted  up  a 
world  full  of  hopes,  and  wishes  and  expectations.  It  is 
not  till  the  shadows,  dark  and  denned,  are  creeping 
around  us,  and  forcing  us  to  deal  honestly  with  our 
selves,  that  we  admit  the  truth  —  that  life  is  made  up  of 
a  series  of  illusions ;  that  we  are  constantly  pursuing 
bubbles,  which  seem  bright  at  a  distance  and  allure  us 
on  to  the  chase,  but  which  fly  from  our  pursuit,  or,  if 
reached,  burst  in  the  hand  that  grasps  them.  It  is  not 


THE     SCHOOL     B  O  Y  '  S     SATURDAY.  35 

till  we  are  already  at  the  landing  and  about  to  step  into 
the  bark  that  is  to  bear  us  from  the  shore,  that  we  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  human  life  is  a  chase,  in  which 
the  game  is  nothing  and  the  pursuit  everything ;  and 
that  the  brightest  and  best  portion  of  this  chase  is  found 
in  the  spring  morning,  when  the  faculties  are  fresh,  the 
fancy  pure,  and  all  nature  robed  in  dew  and  chiming 
with  the  music  of  birds,  and  bees,  and  waterfalls. 

It  is  something  to  have  enjoyed  life,  even  if  that  en 
joyment  may  not  come  again,  for  memory  can  revive  the 
past,  and  at  least  bring  back  its  echoes.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  me,  now  that  I  am  crippled  and  gray  —  a  sort  of  hulk 
driven  a-wreck  upon  the  shore,  and  if  incapable  of  fur 
ther  adventures  upon  the  main,  at  least  inaccessible  to 
the  surges  that  rise  and  rave  upon  its  bosom  —  to  look 
out  to  sea  —  to  mark  the  sails  that  still  glide  over  its 
surface  —  and,  above  all,  to  busy  my  fancy  with  the 
incidents  of  my  own  voyage  upon  the  great  ocean  of 
life. 

I  love  particularly  to  go  back  to  that  period  when  I 
was  full  of  health,  animation  and  hope.  As  yet,  my  life 
was  tarnished  with  no  other  vices  or  follies  than  those 
which  belong  to  an  ungoverned  and  passionate  boy.  My 
health  was  perfect.  I  can  hardly  describe  the  elation 
of  my  heart  of  a  spring  morning.  Everything  gave  me 
delight.  The  adjacent  mountains,  robed  in  mist  or 
wreathed  with  clouds,  seemed  like  the  regions  of  the 
blest.  The  landscape  around,  tame  and  commonplace 
as  it  might  be,  was  superior  to  the  pictures  of  any  artist 
that  ever  laid  his  colors  upon  canvass,  to  my  vision. 
Every  sound  was  music.  The  idle  but  joyous  gabble 


36 


THE     SCHOOL     B  O  Y  '  S     SATURDAY. 


of  the  geese  at  the  brook  —  the  far-off  cawing  of  the  crows 
that  skimmed  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  —  the  mul 
titudinous  notes  of  jays,  robins,  and  blackbirds  in  the  or 
chard  —  the  lowing  of  cattle  —  the  cackle  of  the  fowls  in 
the  barnyard  —  the  gobble  of  the  ostentatious  turkey  — 
were  all  melody  to  me.  No  burst  of  harmony  from  an 
Italian  orchestra,  even  though  Rossini  composed  and 
Paganini  performed,  ever  touched  the  heart  as  those 
humble  melodies  of  morn  in  my  native  village,  touched 
mine  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  At  such  times  my  bosom 
actually  overflowed  with  joy.  I  would  sometimes  shout 
aloud  from  mere  extacy  ;  and  then  I  would  run  for  no 
other  object  than  the  excitement  of  the  race.  At  such 
times  it  seemed  almost  that  I  could  fly.  There  was  an 
elasticity  in  my  limbs  like  that  of  a  mountain  deer.  So 
exuberant  was  this  buoyant  feeling,  that  in  my  visions, 
which  were  then  always  blissful,  I  often  dreamed  of  set 
ting  out  to  run,  and  after  a  brief  space,  stepping  up 
ward  into  the  air  where  I  floated  like  some  spirit  upon 
the  breeze. 

At  evening,  I  used  again  to  experience  the  same  joy 
ous  gust  of  emotion;  and  during  the  day,  I  seldom  felt 
otherwise  than  happy.  Considering  the  quiet  nature  of 
the  place  in  which  I  dwelt,  my  life  was  marked  with 
numerous  incidents  and  adventures  —  of  little  moment 
to  the  world  at  large,  but  important  to  a  boy  of  my  years. 
Saturday  was,  in  that  golden  age,  a  day  always  given  up 
to  amusement,  for  there  was  no  school  kept  then.  A 
description  of  a  single  day  will  give  an  idea  of  my  way 
of  life  at  this  period. 

The  day  we  will  suppose  to  be  fine  —  and  in  fact  it 


THE  SCHOOL  BOY's  SATURDAY.     37 

now  seems  to  me  that  there  was  no  dull  weather  when 
I  was  a  boy.  Bill  Keeler  and  myself  rose  with  the  sun  — 
and  we  must,  of  course,  go  to  the  mountain.  For 
what?  Like  knights  of  the  olden  time,  in  search  of 
adventures.  Bound  to  no  place,  guided  by  no  other 
power  than  our  own  will,  we  set  out  to  see  what  we 
could  see,  and  find  what  we  could  find. 

We  took  our  course  through  a  narrow  vale  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  crossed  by  a  whimpling  brook,  which 
wound  with  many  a  mazy  turn  amid  bordering  hills,  the 
slopes  of  which  were  covered  with  trees,  or  consisted  of 
smooth,  open  pastures.  The  brook  was  famous  for 
trout,  and  as  Bill  usually  carried  his  hooks  and  lines,  we 
often  stopped  for  a  time  and  amused  ourselves  in  fishing. 
On  the  present  occasion,  as  we  were  passing  a  basin  of 
still  water  where  the  gush  of  the  rivulet  was  stayed  by  a 
projecting  bank,  Bill  saw  an  uncommonly  large  trout. 
He  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the  knoll,  perfectly  still,  except 
that  the  feathery  fins  beneath  his  gills,  fanned  the  water 
with  a  breath-like  undulation.  I  saw  Bill  at  the  instant 
he  marked  the  monster  of  the  pool.  In  a  moment  he 
lifted  up  and  waved  his  hand  as  a  sign  to  me,  and  uttered 
a  long,  low  "  she-e-e-e !"  He  then  stepped  softly  back 
wards,  and  at  a  little  distance  knelt  down,  to  hide  him 
self  from  the  view  of  the  trout.  All  this  time  Bill  was 
fumbling  with  a  nervous  quickness  for  his  hook  and 
line.  First  he  ran  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his 
trousers,  seeming  to  turn  over  a  great  variety  of  articles 
there;  then  he  felt  in  his  coat  pockets;  and  then  he 
uttered  two  or  three  awkward  words,  significant  of 
much  vexation. 


38     THE  SCHOOL  BOY'S  SATURDAY. 

There  was  Bill  on  his  knees  —  it  seems  as  if  I  could 
see  him  now  —  evidently  disappointed  at  not  finding  his 
hook  and  line.  At  last  he  began  very  deliberately  to 
unlade  his  pockets.  First  came  out  a  stout  buck- 
handled  knife,  with  one  large  blade  and  the  stump  of  a 
smaller  one.  Then  came  a  large  bunch  of  tow,  several 
bits  of  rope,  a  gimlet,  four  or  five  flints,  and  a  chestnut 
whistle.  From  the  other  pocket  of  the  trousers  he  dis 
closed  three  or  four  bits  of  lead,  a  screw-driver,  a  dough 
nut,  and  something  rolled  into  a  wad  that  might  have 
been  suspected  of  being  a  pocket-handkerchief.  The 
trousers  pockets  being  thus  emptied,  our  hero  applied 
himself  to  those  in  the  flaps  of  his  coat.  He  first  took 
out  a  ball  covered  with  deerskin,  then  a  powder-flask 
and  tinder-box,  two  or  three  corks,  and  sundry  articles 
difficult  to  name.  From  the  other  pocket  he  took  his 
stockings  and  shoes,  for  it  was  May,  and  we  were  both 
indulging  ourselves  in  the  luxury  of  going  barefoot  —  a 
luxury  which  those  only  can  know  who  have  tried  it. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  pitch  of  vexation  to  which 
Bill  was  worked  up,  when,  turning  the  last  pocket  in 
side  out  and  shaking  it  as  if  it  were  a  viper,  he  found 
that  he  had  not  a  hook  or  line  about  him.  Gathering 
up  his  merchandise,  and  thrusting  the  articles  back 
into  their  places,  he  cast  about,  and  selecting  a  large 
stone,  approached  the  place  where  the  trout  lay,  and 
hurled  it  at  him  with  spiteful  vengeance,  exclaiming  — 
"If  I  'm  ever  ketched  without  a  fishhook  agin  —  I 
hope  I  may  be  shot !  " 

"  Stop,  stop,  Bill ! "  said  I ;  "  don't  be  rash." 

"  I  say  I  hope  I  may  be  shot  if  I  'm  ever  ketched  with- 


THE  SCHOOL  BOY'S  SATURDAY.     39 

out  a  fishhook  agin  —  so  there!"  said  he,  hurling  an 
other  stone  into  the  brook. 

"  Remember  what  you  say  now,  Bill !  "  said  I. 

"I  will  remember  it,"  said  my  companion;  and 
though  nothing  more  was  said  of  it  at  the  time,  I  may 
as  well  observe  now,  that  the  fellow  kept  his  word ;  for 
ever  after,  I  remarked  that  he  carried  a  fishhook  in  his 
hat-band,  and,  as  he  said,  it  was  in  fulfilment  of  his  vow. 
Such  was  the  eccentric  humor  of  my  friend,  and  such 
the  real  depth  of  his  character  and  feelings,  that  a  speech, 
uttered  in  momentary  passion  and  seeming  thought 
lessness,  clung  to  his  mind,  and  never  parted  from  him 
till  death. 

We  pursued  our  way  up  the  valley,  though  loth  to 
leave  the  rivulet ;  for  there  is  a  fascination  about  "run 
ning  water  that  few  can  resist :  there  is  a  beauty  in  it 
which  enchants  the  eye  —  a  companionship  like  that  of 
life,  and  which  no  other  inanimate  thing  affords.  And 
of  all  brooks,  this  that  I  now  describe  was  to  me  the 
sweetest. 

After  proceeding  a  considerable  distance,  the  valley 
became  narrowed  down  to  a  rocky  ravine,  and  the 
shrunken  stream  fretted  and  foamed  its  way  over  a 
rugged  and  devious  channel.  At  last,  about  half-way 
up  the  mountain,  and  at  a  considerable  elevation,  we 
reached  the  source  of  the  rivulet,  which  consisted  of  a 
small  lake  of  as  pure  water  as  ever  reflected  the  face  of 
heaven.  It  was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  tall  cliffs, 
whose  dark,  shaggy  forms,  in  contrast,  gave  a  silver  bril 
liancy  and  beauty  to  the  mirror-like  water  that  lay  at  their 
feet.  The  other  side  of  the  lake  was  bounded  by  a 


40     THE  SCHOOL  BOYJS  SATURDAY. 

sandy  lawn,  of  small  extent,  but  in  the  centre  of  which 
stood  a  lofty  white-wood  tree. 

The  objects  that  first  presented  themselves,  as  we  ap 
proached  the  lake,  was  a  kingfisher,  running  over  his 
watchman's  rattle  from  the  dry  limb  of  a  tree  that  pro 
jected  over  the  water,  by  way  of  warning  to  the  tenants 
of  the  mountain  that  danger  was  near ;  a  heron,  stand 
ing  half-leg  deep  in  the  margin  of  the  flood,  and  seem 
ing  to  be  lost  in  a  lazy  dream  ;  a  pair  of  harlequin  ducks 
that  were  swimming  near  the  opposite  shore ;  and  a  bald 
eagle,  that  stood  upon  the  point  of  a  rock  which  projected 
a  few  feet  out  of  the  water  near  the  centre  of  the  lake. 
This  latter  object  particularly  attracted  our  attention, 
but  as  we  moved  toward  it,  it  heavily  unfolded  its  wings, 
pitched  forward,  and  with  a  labored  beating  of  the  air 
gained  an  elevation  and  sailed  gloriously  away  beyond 
the  reach  of  sight. 

These  were  hours  of  feeling,  rather  than  speech. 
Neither  my  companion  nor  myself  spoke  of  the  beauty 
of  that  place  at  the  time;  but  we  felt  it  deeply,  and 
memory,  with  me,  has  kept  a  faithful  transcript  of  the 
scene.  When  the  kingfisher  had  sounded  the  alarm, 
he  slunk  away,  and  all  was  still.  The  morning  over 
ture  of  the  birds  had  passed,  for  it  was  now  near  ten 
o'clock.  The  mournful  metallic  note  of  the  wood- 
thrush  was  perchance  faintly  heard  at  intervals  —  the 
cooing  of  a  pigeon,  the  amorous  wooings  of  the  high- 
hole,  the  hollow  roll  of  the  woodpecker  at  his  work, 
might  occasionally  salute  the  ear,  but  all  at  such  dis 
tance  of  time  and  place  as  to  give  effect  to  the  silence 
and  repose  that  marked  the  scene.  I  had  my  gun,  but 


THE  SCHOOL  BOY'S  SATURDAY.     41 

I  felt  no  disposition  to  break  the  spell  that  nature  had 
cast  on  all  around.  The  harsh  noise  of  gunpowder  had 
been  out  of  tune  there  and  then.  Bill  and  myself 
sauntered  along  the  border  of  the  lake,  musing  and 
stepping  lightly,  as  if  not  to  crumple  a  leaf  or  crush  a 
twig,  that  might  break  the  peace  over  which  Nature, 
like  a  magistrate,  seemed  now  presiding. 

But  as  we  were  slowly  proceeding,  Bill's  piercing  eye 
discovered  a  dark  object  upon  the  white-wood,  or  tulip- 
tree,  that  stood  in  the  sandy  lawn,  at  some  distance. 
He  pointed  to  it,  and  both  of  us  quickened  our  steps  in 
that  direction.  As  we  approached  we  perceived  it  to  be 
an  enormous  nest,  and  concluded  it  must  be  that  of  an 
eagle.  As  we  came  nearer,  the  nest  seemed  roughly 
composed  of  large  sticks,  and  occupying  a  circumfer- 
ance  equal  to  that  of  a  waggon-wheel.  It  was  at  the 
very  top  of  the  tree,  which  rose  to  the  height  of  sixty  or 
seventy  feet,  and  at  least  half  of  that  elevation  was  a 
smooth  trunk  without  a  single  limb.  But  Bill  was  an 
excellent  climber,  and  it  was  resolved,  without  a  coun 
cil  of  war,  that  he  should  ascend  and  see  what  was  in 
the  nest. 

Accordingly,  stripping  off  his  coat,  and  clinging  to 
the  tree  as  if  by  suction,  he  began  to  ascend.  It  was 
"  hitchety  hatchety,  up  I  go !  "  By  a  process  difficult  to 
describe  —  a  sort  of  insinuation,  the  propelling  power 
and  working  machinery  of  which  were  invisible  —  he 
soon  cleared  the  smooth  part  of  the  trunk,  and  taking 
hold  of  the  branches,  rose  limb  by  limb,  till,  with 
breathless  interest,  I  saw  him  lift  his  head  above  the 
nest  and  peer  into  its  recess.  The  best  expression  of 


42  THE     SCHOOL     B  O  Y  '  S     SATURDAY. 

his  wonder  was  his  silence.  I  waited,  but  no  reply. 
"  What  is  it?"  said  I,  incapable  of  enduring  the  sus 
pense.  No  answer.  "  What  is  it,  Bill  — why  do  n't  you 
speak  ? "  said  I,  once  more.  "  Look !  "  said  he,  holding 
up  a  featherless  little  monster,  about  as  large  as  a 
barn-door  fowl  —  kicking  and  flapping  its  wings,  and 
squealing  with  all  its  might.  "  Look  !  there 's  a  pair  on 
'em.  They  're  young  eagles,  I  '11  be  bound,  but  I  never 
see  such  critters  afore  !  The  nest  is  as  big  as  a  trundle- 
bed,  and  there  's  a  heap  of  snake-skins,  and  feathers, 
and  fishes'  tails  in  it;  and  there's  a  lamb's  head  here, 
that  looks  in  the  face  like  an  old  acquaintance  —  and  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  it  belonged  to  Squire  Kellogg's  little 
cosset  that  he  lost  last  week  —  the  varmint !  " 

As  Bill  uttered  these  last  words,  his  attention,  as  well 
my  own,  was  attracted  by  a  rushing  sound  above,  and 
looking  up,  we  saw  an  eagle,  about  a  hundred  yards  in 
the  air,  descending  like  a  thunderbolt  directly  toward 
his  head.  The  bird's  wings  were  close  to  its  body, 
its  tail  above  and  its  head  beneath,  its  beak  open  and  its 
talons  half  displayed  for  the  blow.  Entirely  forgetting 
my  gun,  in  my  agony  of  fear,  I  exclaimed,  "  Jump,  Bill ! 
for  Heaven's  sake  jump  !  "  But  such  was  the  sudden 
ness  of  the  proceeding,  that  ere  I  could  fairly  utter  the 
words,  the  formidable  bird,  with  a  fearful  and  vengeful 
scream,  swept  down  upon  his  mark.  I  shut  my  eyes  in 
very  horror.  But  not  so  Bill  Keeler ;  there  was  no 
taking  him  by  surprise.  As  the  eagle  came  down,  he 
dodged  beneath  the  nest,  exposing  only  the  nether  por 
tion  of  his  person,  together  with  the  seat  of  his  trousers. 
The  clash  of  the  eagle's  beak  as  he  swept  by,  though  it 


SATURDAY.  43 

seemed  like  the  noise  of  a  tailor's  shears  when  forcibly 
shut,  did  no  harm ;  but  we  cannot  say  as  much  of  the 
creature's  talons.  One  of  the  claws  struck  the  part  ex 
posed,  and  made  an  incision  in  the  trousers  as  well  as 
the  skin,  of  about  two  inches  in  length. 

The  rent,  however,  was  too  superficial  to  prove  mor 
tal,  nor  did  it  deprive  Bill  of  his  presence  of  mind. 
Taking  no  manner  of  notice  of  the  damage  done,  he 
cocked  his  eye  up  at  the  eagle,  and  seeing  that  he  was 
already  preparing  for  another  descent,  he  slid  down  be 
tween  the  limbs  of  the  tree  with  amazing  dexterity,  and 
had  approached  the  lowest  of  the  branches,  when  again 
we  heard  the  rushing  sound,  and  saw  the  infuriate  bird 
falling  like  an  iron  wedge  almost  perpendicularly  upon 
him.  Although  he  was  full  five  and  thirty  feet  from  the 
ground,  such  was  my  agony,  that  again  I  cried  out, 
"  Jump,  Bill  —  for  Heaven's  sake,  jump  !  " 

My  friend  was  a  fellow  to  depend  on  himself —  par 
ticularly  in  a  time  of  imminent  peril,  like  the  present. 
Evidently  paying  no  attention  to  me,  he  cast  one  glance 
at  the  eagle,  and  leaping  from  the  branch,  came  down 
upon  the  wind.  The  eagle  swept  over  him  as  he  fell, 
and  striking  his  talons  into  his  brimless  beaver,  bore  it 
away  in  triumph  —  dropping  it  however  at  a  short  dis 
tance.  As  Bill  struck  the  ground  on  his  feet,  I  imme 
diately  saw  that  he  was  safe.  After  sitting  a  moment  to 
recover  his  breath,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and 
finding  that  his  hat  was  gone,  exclaimed,  "  There,  the 
critter's  got  my  clamshell  —  why  did  n't  you  fire,  Bob?  " 

The  hat  was  soon  found,  and  after  a  little  while  Bill 
discovered  the  success  of  the  eagle's  first  attack  upon 


44 

his  person ;  but  although  some  blood  was  shed,  the  inci 
dent  was  not  considered  serious,  and  we  proceeded  in 
our  ramble. 

Such  are  the  adventures  of  a  day  in  my  youth ;  and 
such,  or  similar,  no  doubt,  have  been  the  experiences  of 
many  a  Yankee  youth  before.  I  record  them  here, 
partly  for  the  satisfaction  of  reviewing  the  sweet  mem 
ories  of  the  past,  and  partly  to  point  the  moral  of  this 
chapter  —  that  youth  is  a  portion  of  life  to  which,  in 
after  years,  we  usually  look  back  with  fond  regard,  as 
the  happiest,  if  not  the  most  useful  part  of  our  existence. 
—  '  Robert  Merry's  Life  and  Adventures.3 


A  HORSE  AND  A  WIPE. 


IF  I  were  to  say  that  Mr.  Oleanthus  Duck,  of  Duck- 
ville,  was  a  handsome  man,  though  I  use  the  positive 
term,  it  should  be  understood  that  I  speak  with  qualifica 
tions.  He  was  doubtless  a  handsome  man  in  his  own 
estimation;  he  was  perhaps  a  handsomer  man  than 
^Esop,  as  antiquity  has  portrayed  him;  he  was  cer 
tainly  the  handsomest  man  in  Duckville,  in  the  opinion 
of  those  who  regarded  him  only  through  the  spectacles 
of  circumstance —  for  he  was  worth  ten  thousand  dollars, 
a  clever  little  fortune  in  the  village  where  he  was  born 
and  bred.  He  was  also  the  only  child  of  his  father, 
Squire  Duck,  of  Duckville — justice  of  the  peace, — 
select-man,  —  member  of  the  school  committee,  and 
once  representative  in  the  General  Court  of  Massachu 
setts:  and  lastly,  he  was  now  one-and-twenty,  and  just 
graduated  from  Cambridge  College,  having  borne  home 
a  parchment  to  which  was  attached  a  large  seal  and  a 
blue  riband,  —  trophies  of  more  account  than  the  golden 
fleece  of  Jason. 

Seen  through  all  these  circumstances,  Mr.  Duck  was 
a  very,  "  pretty,"  respectable,  worthy  young  gentleman. 
It  may  be  added  that  he  was  of  spotless  character,  and 
remarkable  for  his  prudence.  "Look  ere  you  leap;" 
"  Think  twice  and  speak  once ; "  "  Take  care  of  irrevoca- 


46  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE. 

ble  deeds ;  "  "  Look  out  for  number  one ; "  were  all  as  in 
stinctive  in  him  as  moderation  in  a  snail,  or  equanimity  in 
an  oyster.  He  was  indeed  born  for  a  pattern-man,  and 
grew  up  accordingly. 

Now  it  were  a  delightful  task  to  write  the  biography 
of  a  pattern-man  —  one  who  goes  straight  forward  upon 
the  turnpike-road  of  virtue  and  propriety,  without  one 
excursion  into  the  mists  and  mazes  of  indiscretion,  vice 
or  passion!  The  theme  is  indeed  worthy  of  an  epic, 
and  is  withal,  quite  original.  Who  ever  thought  of 
writing  a  pattern-man's  history?  But  however  attrac 
tive  the  subject  may  be,  I  can  only  mention  two  points 
in  Mr.  Duck's  life  —  the  buying  a  horse,  and  getting  a 
wife  —  which  I  here  place  in  the  order  in  which  they 
were  undertaken,  and,  I  may  add,  of  their  importance 
in  his  mind. 

When  Mr.  Oleanthus  Duck  had,  as  I  have  related, 
come  out  of  college,  and  was  well  assured  of  the  fact  — 
that  is  to  say,  about  three  years  after  the  event — he 
began  to  think  of  buying  a  horse.  Why  he  thought  of 
it  —  whether  it  was  because  his  father  had  bought  a 
horse  before  him,  and  most  other  people  in  easy  circum 
stances  had  bought  horses ;  or  that  his  mother  had  in 
structed  him  thus  in  his  tender  years ;  or  whether,  that 
man  is  born  to  buy  a  horse  if  he  can  afford  it,  was  a 
principle  deeply  implanted  in  his  nature,  prior  to  the 
lessons  of  experience  —  are  questions  too  mazy  and  met 
aphysical  for  the  present  discourse.  At  all  events, 
when  Mr.  Duck  was  about  three-and-twenty,  he  was 
understood  by  the  people  in  those  parts  to  be  a  candi 
date  for  a  horse. 


AHORSE     AND     A     WIFE.  47 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  of  a  summer  morning,  that 
Mr.  Hony,  a  horse-dealer,  introduced  himself  to  the  hero 
of  this  narrative,  saying  that  he  had  horses  to  sell,  and 
he  understood  that  Mr.  Duck  wanted  to  buy.  Mr. 
Duck  looked  gazingly  at  Mr.  Hony,  and  the  latter  went 
on  as  follows:  "Squire  Staples  of  Ternpletown  tell'd 
me  last  night  that  you  was  in  want  of  a  hause;  and  as 
I  've  got  as  likely  a  set  as  you  '11  light  on,  I  thought 
I'd  call  and  see." 

Mr.  Duck  made  no  answer,  but  ran  his  eye  up  and 
down  the  figure  of  the  speaker.  The  latter  proceeded, — 

"  I  did  n't  know  nothin  about  it  myself,  only  Squire 
Staples  of  Ternpletown  tell'd  me  so:  is  it  a  mare  or  a 
hause  you  want?" 

"  Hem  !  "  was  the  answer. 

"  Oh  ho,  you  haint  exactly  made  up  your  mind ! 
Well  now  —  there  's  nothing  like  okkelar  demonstration 
to  settle  a  man's  stomach  when  its  in  a  kind  of  see-saw 
state.  I  've  got  six  hauses  in  the  barn-yard,  and  should 
like  to  have  you  look  at  'em,  if  you  have  time.  If  you 
are  ingaged  —  why  I  '11  call  agin." 

"  No,  no,  on  the  whole,  I  guess  I  '11  look  at  them." 
Thus  replying,  Oleanthus  took  his  hat  gingerly,  and 
keeping  a  very  watchful  eye  upon  Mr.  Hony,  followed 
him  to  the  barn-yard. 

v  "  I  think  you  said  't  was  a  hause  you  wanted,"  said 
Hony,  promptingly ;  but  he  got  no  answer.  "  There ! " 
said  he,  untying  a  stupid  cart-horse,  and  making  him 
spin  round  like  a  top,  while  he  held  the  halter,  "  there 
is  one  that  '11  suit  you  exactly.  He 's  not  one  of  your 
mile  in  a  minute  fellers,  but  he  's  a  right  down  good, 


48  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE. 

honest,  substantial  beast.  He  was  raised  by  Squire 
Muzzy  of  Bloomsdale,  in  the  state  of  Varmount.  I've 
summered  him  and  wintered  him  —  that  is  to  say,  in  my 
eye — and  I  know  all  about  him.  Squire  Muzzy  was  offered 
seventy-five  dollars  for  him  the  day  arter  he  was  born." 

During  these  observations,  Hony  looked  Oleanthus 
keenly  in  the  face  from  under  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat ; 
but  he  was  bothered.  He  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
tell  what  sort  of  impression  he  made  upon  his  intended 
customer.  jStill,  not  to  be  baulked  and  desirous  of  get 
ting  something  that  might  guide  him  in  his  design,  he 
went  on. 

"There's  some  people  very  peticular  about  the 
color  of  a  hause,  but  I  say  that  are  hause  is  a  shade 
finer  than  any  thing  in  these  parts." 

"  What  do  you  call  that  color  1 "  said  Oleanthus. 

"Well,  you  may  call  it  what  you're  a  mind  tew; 
what  color  do  you  like  best,  Mr.  Duck?"  said  Hony, 
quite  encouraged  that  he  had  opened  the  mouth  of  his 
patron,  and  fondly  imagining  that  he  had  now  a  crevice 
into  which  he  might  insinuate  the  lever  of  his  ingenuity, 
and  pry  open  the  man's  mind. 

"  Oh,  I  only  asked  the  question,"  said  Oleanthus;  "  I 
do  n't  like  any  color  especially." 

"  Well,  this  hause  is  bay." 

"  Oh,  bay  is  it?  I  do  n't  like  bay." 

"  Oh,  you  don't?  well,  here's  a  thing,"  leading  out 
another  animal,  "  a  leetle  bit  nearer  to  perfection  than 
any  piece  of  hause  flesh  that 's  bin  this  way,  sin'  the 
revolutionary  war,  I  guess.  I  won't  speak  positive  — 
but " 


AHORSE     AND     A     WIFE.  49 

"  What  color  do  you  call  that?  " 

"  Why,  that 's  a  kind  of  betwixt  and  between ;  you  may 
call  it  a  steel  mixed,  or  an  iron  gray,  or  a  fawn,  or  a  laloc, 
or  what  you  're  a  mind  tew.  It  do  n't  make  or  break, 
you  know,  what  you  call  a  thing ;  a  goose  is  a  goose,  if 
you  call  it  a  gander." 

"  Well,  I  do  n't  like  that  color ;  I  think  I  prefer 
black." 

"  Well  now,  that 's  exactly  what  I  expected.  Fact !  I 
had  a  notion  all  the  time  that  you  wanted  a  black  hause, 
and  you're  right  about  it  Squire  —  black's  the  best 
color  arter  all,  and  I  brought  one  here  a  purpose  for  you." 

"  Well,  why  did  n't  you  show  him  to  me  before?  " 

"  Why,  a  man  do  n't  want  to  come  out  with  his 
trumps  fust,  captain :  I  know  what  sort  of  a  hause  you 
want  better  than  you  du  yourself.  You  want  a  hause 
that 's  fit  for  a  gentleman,  one  that  '11  go  fast  or  slow, 
jest  as  you  like  —  one  that  '11  travel  all  day,  and  be  jest 
as  lively  at  night,  as  afore  he  set  out  —  one  that  '11  live 
without  eaten,  if  you  ax  him  tu  —  one  that 's  got  some 
sense,  —  for  hauses  is  like  men,  there  's  a  good  many 
fools  among  'em,  and  a  fool  of  a  hause  is  only  fit  for  a 
fool  of  a  man.  Now  you  want  a  sensible  hause ;  a  rail 
substantial,  well  broke  hause;  —  one  that  '11  improve  on 
your  hands ;  one  that,  if  you  want  to  sell  him,  will  fetch 
more  than  you  gin  for  him.  Now,  I  've  got  jest  the 
critter.  I  show'd  him  to  Squire  Staples.  He  said  you 
was  a  dreadful  peticler  man ;  but  he  said  that  are  hause 
would  suit  you  to  a  shavin.  But  there 's  one  pint  about 
it;  I  expect  the  hause  is  sold." 

"Oh,  he's  sold,  is  he?" 


50  AHORSE     A  NBA     WIFE. 

"  Why,  he  's  not  exactly  sold,  positive,  but  I  'm  going 
to  Boston,  and  expect  Squire  Parkins  '11  take  him.  He 
tell'd  me  the  last  time  I  was  down,  if  I  could  find  any 
thing  a  leetle  cuter  than  ever  was  seen  afore,  he  'd  like 
to  look  at  it,  and  with  him  a  wink 's  as  good  as  a  bid, 
you  know.  When  he  finds  any  thing  that  fills  his  eye, 
he  do  n't  stick  at  trifles." 

By  this  time  Oleanthus  seemed  to  be  interested,  and 
Hony,  presuming  upon  his  advantage,  leisurely  picked 
up  a  piece  of  chesnut  shingle,  took  out  his  knife,  and 
began  whittling  with  an  air  of  perfect  indifference,  but 
still  proceeding  with  great  glibness  in  his  conversation, 
as  follows : 

"  Well,  Squire,  when  you  've  made  up  your  mind  to 
buy  a  hause,  I  should  like  to  show  you  one,  for  its  in 
my  way.  I  'm  most  afeared  to  sell  this  one,  for  Squire 
Parkins  might  blame  me.  You  see  it 's  in  hauses,  as  in 
gals;  there  's  a  good  many  good  uhs,  but  there  's  only 
now  and  then  one  that 's  parfect.  Now  Squire  Parkins 
allers  is  arter  them  that 's  a  leetle  better  than  any  body 
else's ;  and  this  is  just  the  critter  for  his  money." 

"  But  let  me  see  the  horse,"  said  Oleanthus,  seeming 
to  grow  impatient.  "  Well-1-1,"  said  the  jockey,  affect 
ing  hesitation.  "  Well,  I  ought  to  mention  one  thing 
more ;  the  hause  has  got  one  fault,  and  I  like  to  be  candid 
with  a  rael  gentleman." 

"  What  is  his  fault?" 

"Why  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  as  you  don't 
want  him,  colonel ;  howsever,  there's  no  harm  in  lookin. 
I  sha'  n't  charge  you  nothin'  for  a  sight."  Saying  this, 
Hony  led  out  his  horse,  and  began  to  show  off  his  paces. 


AHORSEANDAWIFE.  51 

He  was  a  clever  animal,  high-fed,  fat,  and  nicely  groomed. 
The  jockey  fancied  that  he  could  see  Oleanthus'  mouth 
begin  to  water,  but  the  latter  prudently  said  nothing. 
There  was  a  pause  of  some  minutes  while  the  horse 
trotted  and  frisked  in  circles  round  his  owner,  at  the 
length  of  the  tether.  At  last  Oleanthus  spoke. 

"  You  said  he  had  one  fault,  what  is  it?" 

"  Why  it 's  a  fault  that  can  be  cured,  as  Jerry  Piper 
said  of  his  nose,  when  the  gal  telled  him  't  was  tu  long. 
There  's  enough  of  the  same,  says  Jerry,  to  make  it 
shorter,  says  Jerry." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  fault  of  the  horse?" 

"  Why  Squire,  this  trading  in  hauses,  is  like  a  lottery ; 
there 's  more  than  tu  blanks  to  a  prize,  and  when  we 
du  get  a  prize,  we  must  make  the  best  on  't.  However, 
cash  is  cash,  and  we  must  live." 

"  I  do  n't  understand  you." 

"  Eh !  very  likely,  I  do  n't  spose  that  I  rightly  under 
stand  myself;  now  I  should  hate  to  part  with  that  hause ! 
and  beside,  there  's  Squire  Parkins ;  I  do  n't  know  what 
he  'd  say." 

"  But  what  is  the  fault  of  the  hause?  " 

"  Oh  its  a  dreadful  fault;  you  would  n't  take  him  a 
gift,"  and  saying  this,  Hony  began  to  untie  his  horses, 
as  if  for  a  departure.  Seeing  this,  Mr.  Duck  became  a 
little  uneasy,  but  still  maintained  his  self-possession. 
He  could  not  forbear,  however,  asking  once  more. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Hony,  I  think  you  said  your  name  was 
Hony?  —  " 

"  Yes  sir,  that  5s  my  name,  and  the  name  of  my  father 
afore  me.  The  Honys,  I  have  heard  say,  came  to  this 


52  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE. 

country  in  the  time  of  the  Old  French  War,  and  settled 
in  No.  4,  in  New  Hampshire.  My  mother  is  related  to 
the  Stapleses  of  Templetown ;  Squire  Staples  is  a  third 
cousin  of  my  grandfather's  first  wife's  niece,  and  that  'a 
the  kasion  we  're  so  intimit.  I  allers  call  and  see 
the  Squire,  and  it  was  him  that  set  me  a  cummin  here. 
He  said  this  black  hause  was  just  the  critter  that  you 
wanted ;  but  I  teld  him  about  Squire  Parkins  and  about 
the  fault  of  the  hause." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  fault  of  the  horse  ? " 

"  Why,  he  's  a  hair  too  smart,  major." 

"  Oh,  ho ;  he  's  smart  is  he?  You  mean  that  he  's  too 
spirited,  —  he  wants  to  go." 

"  Why  yes,  yes,  a  leetle  too  much  up,  for  some  peo 
ple  ;  but  it 's  a  good  fault.  However,  that 's  as  a  par 
son  feels.  How  do  you  like  a  hause,  colonel  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  a  fast  horse." 

"  Well,  he 's  not  exactly  fast;  you*can't  say  he 's  posi 
tively  a  fast  horse.  There 's  some  faster,  and  some 
slower ;  he  's  a  kind  of  a  fastish,  slowish  hause.  Squire 
Staples  thinks  he 's  about  such  a  hause  as  would  suit 
you." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  he's  too  large.  I  don 't  want  a 
big  horse." 

"Well,  you 're  right  about  that  gineral  —  the  little 
hauses  is  the  best.  But  it 's  queer  how  people  talk  ; 
you  think  this  hause  is  too  big  —  now  he  's  in  fact  un 
der  size." 

"  Well,  now  I  look  at  him,  I  think  he  is.  He  seems 
to  be  a  small  horse.  I  do  'nt  like  a  small  horse." 

"  Why,  he  is  a  smallish  hause,  just  a  leetle  above 


A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE.  53 

middling  size.     I  expect  he  's  bigger  than  nine  out  of 
ten." 

"  I  thought  you  just  said  he  was  under  size." 

"Yes,  and  so  he  is  —  he's  under  size  in  a  sartin 
sense.  He  's  bigger  than  the  biggest,  and  littler  than 
the  least.  He  's  about  middlin — He's  jist  right  for 
sarvice." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  ask  for  him." 

"  Why,  in  fixing  the  price  of  a  thing,  Squire,  there's 
a  number  of  pints  to  be  considered.  In  the  first  place, 
how  much  can  a  man  afford  to  give ;  and,  in  the  next, 
what  does  the  beast  stand  you  in — but  the  rail  pint 
arter  all,  is,  do  you  want  a  hause  ?" 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  I  can  't  exactly  say  —  I  have  some 
idea  of  buying  a  horse  —  but  I  have  'nt  fully  made  up 
my  mind." 

"  Well,  so  I  thought  — but  when  you  're  in  a  proper 
frame  of  mind,  Squire,  jest  send  to  me,  and  I  '11  come 
and  try  to  help  you  out."  So  saying,  Mr.  Hony  mount 
ed  one  of  his  horses,  and  the  others  being  loosed,  fol 
lowed  him  full  tilt  out  of  the  yard.  It  was  pretty  clear 
that  Mr.  Hony  was  not  disposed  to  attempt  further  to 
drive  a  bargain  with  a  man  who  had  not  yet  made  up 
his  mind  to  buy  a  horse,  and  whose  coolness  and  suspi 
cion  rendered  him  an  overmatch  for  his  own  impu 
dence  and  cunning. 

*  #  #  #  *  # 

Mankind  are  generally  supposed  to  be  divided  into 
two  races  —  those  who  have  too  much,  and  those  who 
have  too  little  to  do.  But  when  you  look  deeper 
into  the  matter,  those  who  are  the  busiest,  are  always 


54  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE. 

found  capable  of  doing  a  little  more,  and  they  are  the 
very  persons  to  go  to  if  you  want  any  thing  done  which 
may  require  labor,  effort  and  self-sacrifice.  Adam  Clark 
says  that  the  proverb  "  too  many  irons  in  the  fire,"  is  a 
falsehood,  and  that  you  should  keep  every  one  of  them 
hot  —  tongs,  poker,  and  all. 

As  to  those  who  seem  to  have  but  little  to  do,  that 
little  is  usually  a  mighty  work  to  them.  There  is  not, 
perhaps,  a  man  of  whom  it  may  be  more  truly  said  that 
he  has  his  hands  full,  than  one  of  those  envied  persons 
who  has  nothing  to  do  :  one  who  can  live  without  toil, 
and  has  not  character,  or  courage,  or  virtue  enough  to 
engage  in  the  serious  responsibilities  of  life :  to  such 
an  one,  the  merest  trifle  is  a  bugbear  of  vast  dimen 
sions.  To  him  a  molehill  is  a  mountain.  You  often 
see  such  an  imbecile,  grumbling  at  the  pettiest  obstacles, 
while  another  is  toiling  with  vigor,  alacrity  and  success, 
over  the  real  Alps  that  are  thrown  in  the  way  of  life's 
great  journey.  In  deciding  which  of  these  two  races 
of  men  has  the  hardest  lot  in  life,  I  should  reverse  the 
common  opinion,  and  consider  the  men  of  nothing-to- 
do,  as  those  who  are  overburdened  with  care.  To  such 
persons,  killing  time  is  often  a  task  of  more  real  horror, 
than  the  slaying  of  the  Lernean  Hydra. 

Men  judge  of  things  by  their  habits,  and  the  objects 
around  them.  So  it  was  with  Mr.  Oleanthus  Duck. 
He  had  not  yet  thought  of  getting  a  wife  ;  he  had  reach 
ed  his  six-and-twentieth  year,  and  being  independent  in 
his  circumstances,  had  not  deemed  it  necessary  to 
engage  in  a  profession.  He  had  undertaken  nothing 
in  life  but  to  buy  a  horse.  To  him,  this  was  a  great 


A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE.  55 

work  —  equal,  comparatively,  at  least,  to  the  seven  la 
bors  of  Hercules.  Having  but  one  object  in  his  mind, 
that  filled  his  soul.  A  fly  upon  an  apple  sees  nothing 
but  his  footstool,  and  this  to  him  is  a  world.  So  our 
hero  thought,  talked,  and  dreamed,  of  nothing  but  buy 
ing  a  horse.  This  seemed  to  be  to  him  at  once  a  task, 
and  a  pleasure  —  a  thing  which  burdened  his  life,  and 
which  still  gave  life  all  its  zest.  In  this  he  had  been 
engaged  for  three  years,  but  without  success.  Every 
body  that  had  a  horse  to  part  with,  went  to  him,  and 
whenever  he  heard  of  a  horse  to  sell,  he  went  to  look 
at  it.  He  paid  money  enough  in  the  hire  of  horses  to 
buy  a  dozen,  and  travelled  as  much  as  would  make  the 
tour  of  Europe  in  riding  and  driving  upon  experiment 
and  observation. 

During  all  this  time,  it  is  not  to  be  disguised  that 
Mr.  Duck  was  several  times  upon  the  very  verge  of  de 
parting  from  his  prudence,  and  actually  buying  a  horse, 
thus  deciding  the  awful  issue  between  his  parsimo 
ny  and  his  wishes.  The  fact  was  that  he  really  wanted 
a  horse  —  a  horse  was  the  great  desideratum  of  his  life 
—  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  three  things ;  the 
first  of  which  was,  that  he  would  not  buy  a  horse  till  he 
could  find  one  absolutely  perfect.  This  was  a  funda 
mental  point ;  and  it  is  curious  to  remark  how  elevating 
is  this  process  of  dwelling  upon  perfection.  Its  ten 
dency  is  to  raise  the  standard  of  taste  and  judgment 
higher  and  higher.  In  such  a  manner  did  it  operate 
on  Mr.  Duck,  that  nothing  could  satisfy  his  nice  and 
fastidious  taste.  Even  where  no  one  else  could  discover 
any  defect,  he  saw  some  incipient  spavin,  windgall,  false 


56  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE. 

quarter,  glanders  or  heaves.  No  less  than  nineteen 
horses  did  he  reject  because  their  tails  were  too  short, 
six  he  sent  away  for  having  a  white  spot  in  the  forehead, 
—  and  he  could  not  bear  white  spots  in  the  forehead  — 
seven,  he  dismissed  for  being  an  inch  too  tall  —  eleven 
for  being  half  an  inch  too  low.  Thirty-four  he  sent  off 
without  being  able  to  note  any  particular  objection, 
except  that  the  wind  chanced  to  be  easterly,  and  thirty- 
three,  because  he  was  troubled  with  indigestion  about 
those  days,  and  had  not  exactly  made  up  his  mind 
whether  he  could  afford  to  buy  a  horse. 

The  second  point  which  Mr.  Duck  had  laid  down, 
was,  that  he  must  buy  a  horse,  if  he  bought  at  all,  for 
a  little  less  than  he  was  worth ;  the  third  was,  that  ev 
ery  man  who  has  a  horse  to  sell,  is  a  jockey,  and  every 
jockey  a  rogue  !  Adhering  to  these  several  propositions, 
he  went  on  in  his  pursuit,  but  without  success,  until  at 
last  he  had  reached  the  age  of  five-and-forty.  About 
that  period  it  became  manifest  that  a  new  and  great 
thought  was  struggling  in  his  bosom.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  get  married  ! 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Duck  had  not 
thought  of  this  subject  before — it  will  be  easily  guessed, 
that  being  a  man  "  well  to  do  in  the  world,"  "  college 
learnt,"  of  staid  and  sober  character,  and  remarkable 
for  his  prudence  —  a  trait  that  outweighs  all  others  in 
a  yankee  village — he  could  have  matched  himself  if 
he  would.  It  is  not  to  be  objected,  that  being  six  feet 
three  inches  in  height,  at  least  two  thirds  of  this  altitude 
consisted  of  his  two  nether  limbs :  that  his  face  was 
inordinately  long,  with  ears  almost  as  conspicuous  as 


A     HORSE     AND     A     WIFE.  57 

those  of  Balaam's  travelling  companion :  that  he  was 
goggle-eyed  and  whapper-jawed,  with  a  nutmeg  com 
plexion,  and  rough  reddish  hair  that  seemed  to  ally  him 
to  the  terrier  family.  I  have  before  said  that  Mr.  Duck 
was  wealthy,  liberally  educated  and  prudent ;  beside 
being  the  only  child  of  Squire  Duck  of  Duckville.  Is 
not  all  this  enough  to  convert  such  a  form  and  face  as  I 
have  described,  into  a  village  Apollo  ? 

So  thought  Oleanthus  at  least,  and  for  the  first  twenty 
years  of  the  marriageable  portion  of  his  life,  he  had 
considered  it  a  great  point  for  one  like  him,  so  exposed 
to  snares  and  temptations,  so  likely  to  be  a  dangerous 
object  to  the  susceptible,  and  an  alluring  one  to  the 
mercenary  —  to  steer  clear  of  the  perils  that  beset  him 
from  the  other  sex  —  all  of  whom  he  regarded,  as  of 
course  having  the  most  subtile  designs  upon  him.  The 
maidens  he  regarded  as  Scylla,  and  widows  even  as  Cha- 
rybdis.  As  to  matrimony,  he  probably  had  thought  with 
Byron  or  somebody  else,  that  a  man  must  be  either 
drunk  or  crazy  to  make  any  woman  an  offer. 

But  now  a  seeming  change  had  come  over  him,  the 
secret  of  which  might  be  that  he  was  conscious  of  grow 
ing  old,  though  he  pretended  to  be  younger  than  ever. 
He  even  affected  youthful  company,  dressed  more  jauntily 
than  before,  carried  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  and 
as  he  approached  a  young  lady,  drew  his  eyelids  near 
together  and  summoned  up  a  simper  to  his  lips,  as  is 
now  done  by  our  young  gentlemen  on  their  return  from 
Paris.  He  positively  looked  sentimental ;  at  meet 
ing  he  gazed  over  the  congregation  in  prayer-time 
as  if  wistfully  seeking  some  darling  object,  and  what 

6 


58  AHORSEANDAWIFE. 

was  more  decisive  than  all  beside,  in  his  inquiries  about 
horses,  which  were  still  unremitted,  he  now  gave  out 
that  he  wanted  a.  family  horse. 

It  was  soon  an  established  point  in  Duckville  that 
Oleanthus  was  a  marrying  man;  but  who  was  to  be  his 
happy  wife  ?  Ah,  that  was  the  question !  It  became  a 
matter  of  interest  and  importance  among  the  village 
gossips  and  petticoat  politicians  to  master  this  mighty 
secret.  A  close  watch  was  therefore  established,  and 
every  movement  of  our  hero  was  noted  and  carried  to 
head-quarters. 

It  mattered  little  that  no  very  great  discoveries  were 
made,  for  rumor  is  like  the  oak,  it  grows  mighty  big 
from  very  small  seed.  Oleanthus  happening  to  go  one 
day,  to  see  a  horse  that  Colonel  Smallpiece  of  West 
minster  had  for  sale,  it  was  at  once  announced  that  he 
was  courting  the  Colonel's  daughter  —  Miss  Urania 
Smallpiece.  In  three  weeks  the  current  story  fixed 
the  day  of  the  wedding  as  near  at  hand,  —  a  thing  to 
be  explained  by  considering  that  in  these  cases,  ru 
mor  is  generally  got  up  by  the  ladies,  and  they  — 
heaven  bless  'em  —  are  always  in  haste  to  make  people 
happy. 

The  simple  fact  was,  however,  that  Oleanthus  had  not 
yet  gone  so  far  as  to  fix  upon  the  object  of  his  affection : 
he  was  only  theoretically  in  love :  he  had  only  resolved 
to  marry  as  the  Duck  family  had  done  before  him.  It 
should  be  recollected  that  he  was  a  prudent  man,  and  he 
must  deliberate ;  he  was  a  pattern-man,  a  man  of  principle, 
and  must  marry,  if  at  all,  upon  principle.  It  is  therefore 
proper  to  state  distinctly  that,  as  in  attempting  to  buy  a 


AHORSEANDAWIFE.  59 

horse,  he  started  upon  certain  fixed  axioms ;  so  now,  he 
was  to  regulate  his  conduct  by  established  rules;  and 
those  in  relation  to  matrimony,  were  much  the  same  as 
those  which  he  had  observed  in  the  other  great  under 
taking  of  his  useful  and  honorable  life.  In  the  first 
place,  Mrs.  Duck  must  be  beautiful,  perfect  in  form  and 
feature,  complexion,  temper  and  character.  She  must 
walk  with  grace,  sing  like  an  angel,  love  Oleanthus  to  dis 
traction,  be  of  good  family,  and  above  all,  she  must  be  rich ! 
"  One  thing  at  least,"  said  Oleanthus  emphatically  to 
himself,  "  a  man  who  marries  must  improve  his  fortune." 
So  much  for  the  object  that  was  to  have  the  glory  of 
winning  Mr.  Duck's  hand.  But  it  is  needful  to  note  one 
thing  more.  He  had  pretty  much  the  same  idea  of  wo 
men  in  general  that  he  had  of  horse-dealers,  that  they 
are  all  jockeys.  I  admit  that  this  notion  is  a  pretty  com 
mon  one  among  a  large  class  of  men,  who  value  them 
selves  upon  their  sagacity, — but  who  in  this  case,  are 
led  into  a  vulgar  mistake,  by  judging  the  best  portion  of 
creation  by  themselves.  I  am  sorry  to  say  this  of  our 
hero,  but  so  it  was  —  the  truth  will  out.  He  set  about 
getting  a  wife  like  many  others  who  pretend  to  under 
take  it  on  principle,  with  a  deep  calculation  to  deal  with 
the  future  partner  of  his  bosom,  as  he  would  deal  with  a 
horse-jockey,  and  get  the  best  bargain  that  pretence, 
hypocrisy,  and  every  artifice  of  which  he  was  master, 
might  enable  him  to  achieve.  Let  not  this  be  called 
swindling ;  remember  that  it  is  the  fashion  —  that  women 
of  fortune  are  usually  wooed  and  won  on  the  same  princi 
ple.  'T  is  the  way  of  good  society.  In  the  game  of 
courtship,  especially  where  there  is  money  at  stake,  it  is 


60  A     HORSE     AND     A     WIPE. 

not  expected  that  either  party,  and  particularly  the  man, 
is  to  pay  any  regard  to  truth. 

I  cannot  go  through  with  the  details  of  Mr.  Duck's 
adventures ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  he  continued  to  seek 
his  two  great  objects  with  patient  assiduity,  always 
being  in  search  of  a  horse  and  a  wife,  and  often  seeming 
to  be  on  the  point  of  concluding  a  purchase  or  a  match, 
but  always  finding  at  last,  some  difficulty  in  the  way. 
He  seemed  really  miserable  when  he  was  not  engaged 
in  these  pursuits;  yet  the  moment  he  appeared  to  be  on  the 
point  of  realizing  his  object,  his  desire  forsook  him,  and 
he  fell  into  a  state  of  indifference  or  aversion.  When 
the  horse  would  suit,  perhaps  the  weather  was  bad  or 
the  price  too  high ;  or  when  the  lady  was  worthy,  some 
whim  of  his  or  hers,  came  in  at  the  critical  moment  of 
fate,  and  determined  the  event  on  the  side  of  prudence 
and  celibacy. 

I  must  hurry  forward  to  the  denouement.  Mr.  Duck 
had  at  last  almost  reached  the  age  of  seventy  years, 
though  he  pretended  to  be  about  five-and-forty.  But  vil 
lage  records  are  easily  consulted,  and  accordingly  his 
real  age  was  well  known,  though  he  still  maintained  his 
affected  juvenility.  It  is  true  his  form  was  now  stoop 
ing;  his  hair  white;  and  his  step  tottering:  but  he 
was  as  eagerly  bent  upon  buying  a  horse  and  getting  a 
wife,  as  ever.  It  was  remarkable,  however,  that  now  he 
wanted  a  smart  horse  and  a  young  wife.  The  former 
must  trot  a  mile  in  two  minutes  and  thirty  seconds,  and 
the  latter  must  not  exceed  fifteen. 

At  last  our  hero  was  a  happy  man,  in  the  technical 
phrase  of  the  novels.  It  was  on  his  seventieth  birth- 


AHORSEANDAWIFE.  61 

day,  though  he  numbered  it  forty-six,  that  he  consum 
mated  the  two  great  objects  of  his  earthly  career  —  he 
bought  a  horse,  and  he  got  a  wife !  The  former  was 
a  broken-down  hack,  for  which  he  paid  an  enormous 
price ;  though  it  was  all  the  same  to  him,  for  he  was  now 
too  old  to  ride.  The  chimney-corner  was  what  he 
most  cared  for.  As  to  the  wife,  he  experienced  a  simi 
lar  mixture  of  good  and  evil  fortune.  He  married  a 
widow  who  had  had  three  husbands,  and  whose  chief 
merit  lay  in  her  experience,  and  in  getting  rid  of  them. 
She  was  without  a  penny,  though  Oleanthus  fancied  that 
she  was  rich  She  was  old,  though  he  imagined  her  to  be 
young;  she  was  ugly,  though  artificial  curls,  artificial  teeth, 
burnt  cork,  and  every  other  aid  of  art,  enabled  her  to 
cheat  the  blear-eyed,  superannuated  bachelor.  He  how 
ever  did  not  suffer  long,  for  Mrs.  Duck,  in  the  space  of 
two  years,  laid  him  quietly  in  the  tomb,  and  inherited 
his  ample  fortune. 

Such  is  the  brief  story  of  your  prudent  man,  —  one 
whose  prudence  is  founded  in  a  distrust  of  others, 
and  who  has  but  one  object  in  view,  to  benefit  himself. 
Refusing  a  fair  share  of  the  risks  and  responsibilities  of 
life,  and  always  endeavoring  to  get  the  better  in  the  com 
merce  of  society,  he  wastes  his  years  away,  misses  the 
very  objects  of  pursuit,  or  only  attains  them  when  his 
faculties  are  gone  and  he  cannot  enjoy  them.  Perhaps 
too,  in  his  dotage,  he  is  made  a  dupe  in  respect  to  those 
very  things,  in  which,  through  life,  he  has  sought  to 
dupe  others. 

Thus  our  romance  ends  in  the  trite,  but  wholesome 
proverb  :  "  Honesty  is  the  best  policy." 

6* 


PREJUDICE. 

AMONG  the  hardy  pioneers  who  first  settled  along  the 
borders  of  the  Ohio,  was  an  Englishman,  with  two  sons. 
These  were  twins,,  and  his  only  children.  He  was  half 
husbandman  and  half  hunter,  and  the  two  boys  follow 
ed  his  double  vocation,  They  were  seldom  separated, 
and  never  seemed  happy  but  in  each  other's  society. 
If  one  was  engaged  in  any  employment,  the  other  must 
share  it.  Jf  one  took  his  rifle,  and  plunged  into  the 
forest  in  pursuit  of  the  wild  deer,  the  other,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  took  his,  and  became  his  companion.  They 
thus  grew  up  together,  participating  in  each  other's  pleas 
ures  and  fatigues  and  dangers.  They  were  therefore 
united,  not  only  by  the  ties  of  kindred  and  a  common 
home,  but  by  a  thousand  recollections  of  silvan  sports, 
and  wild  adventures,  and  hair-breadth  escapes,  enjoyed 
or  experienced  in  each  other's  company. 

About  the  time  that  these  brothers  were  entering 
upon  manhood,  the  French  and  Indian  war  broke  out 
along  our  western  frontier.  In  one  of  the  bloody  skir 
mishes  that  soon  followed,  the  father  and  the  two  sons 
were  engaged.  The  former  was  killed,  and  one  of  the 
twins  being  taken  by  the  French  troops,  was  carried 
away, 

The  youth  that  remained,  returned  after  the  fight  to 


PREJUDICE.  63 

his  father's  home;  but  it  was  to  him  a  disconsolate 
and  desolate  spot.  His  mother  had  been  dead  for  years : 
his  father  was  slain,  and  his  only  brother  —  he  that  was 
bound  to  him  by  a  thousand  ties,  was  taken  by  the  en 
emy  and  carried  away,  he  knew  not  whither.  But  it 
seemed  that  he  could  not  live  in  separation  from  him. 
Accordingly,  he  determined  to  visit  Montreal,  where  he 
understood  his  brother  had  been  taken  ;  but,  about  this 
time,  he  was  told  that  he  had  died  of  wounds  received 
in  the  skirmish  which  had  proved  fatal  to  the  father, 
and  brought  captivity  to  the  son. 

The  young  man,  therefore,  for  a  time  abandoned  him 
self  to  grief;  but  at  last  he  went  to  Marietta,  and  after 
a  few  years  was  married  and  became  the  father  of  sev 
eral  children.  But  the  habits  and  tastes  of  his  early  life 
were  still  upon  him,  and  after  some  years  he  migrated 
farther  into  the  wilderness,  and  settled  down  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Sandusky  river.  Here  he  begun  to  fell 
the  trees  and  clear  the  ground,  and  had  soon  a  farm 
of  cultivated  land,  sufficient  for  all  his  wants. 

But  the  forrester  was  still  a  moody  and  discontented 
man.  His  heart  was  indeed  full  of  kindness  to  his 
family ;  but  the  death  of  his  brother  had  left  a  blank 
in  his  bosom,  which  nothing  seemed  to  fill.  Time,  it 
is  true,  gradually  threw  its  veil  over  early  memories, 
and  softened  the  poignancy  of  regret  for  the  loss  of 
a  brother  that  had  seemed  a  part  of  himself,  and  whose 
happiness  was  dearer  than  his  own.  But  still,  that 
separation  had  given  a  bias  to  his  mind  and  a  cast  to 
his  character,  which  no  subsequent  event,  or  course  of 
circumstances  could  change.  He  was  at  heart  a  soli- 


64  PREJUDICE. 

tary  man  —  yearning  indeed  for  the  pleasure  of  so 
ciety,  yet  always  keeping  himself  aloof  from  mankind. 
He  had  planted  himself  in  the  wilderness,  far  from 
any  other  settlement,  as  if  purposely  burying  himself 
in  the  tomb  of  the  forest. 

There  was  one  trait  which  strongly  marked  the  char 
acter  of  this  man  ;  and  that  was,  a  detestation  of  every 
thing  French.  This,  doubtless,  originated  in  the  fact, 
that  his  brother's  captivity  and  death  were  chargeable 
to  the  French  army,  and  he  naturally  enough  learned 
to  detest  every  thing  that  could  be  associated  with  the 
cause  of  that  event  which  darkened  his  whole  existence. 
A  striking  evidence  of  this  deep  and  bitter  prejudice, 
was  furnished  by  the  manner  in  which  the  forrester 
treated  a  Frenchman  who  lived  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Sandusky  river,  and  who  was,  in  fact,  the  only  person 
that  could  be  esteemed  his  neighbor.  Being  divided 
by  a  considerable  river,  the  two  men  were  not  likely 
to  meet  except  by  design ;  and  as  the  Frenchman  was 
advised  of  the  prejudice  of  his  neighbor  against  his 
countrymen,  there  was  no  personal  intercourse  between 
them. 

Thus  they  lived  for  many  years,  their  families  some 
times  meeting ;  but  quarrel  and  altercation  almost  in 
variably  ensued  upon  such  occasions.  In  all  these 
cases,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  farmer  to  indulge  in 
harsh  reflections  upon  the  French  character,  and  each 
action  of  his  neighbor  was  commented  upon  with  bitter 
ness.  Every  unfavorable  rumor  touching  the  French 
man's  character,  however  improbable,  was  readily  be 
lieved  ;  and  his  actions,  that  deserved  commendation 


PREJUDICE  .  65 

rather  than  blame,  were  distorted  into  evil,  by  misrep 
resentation  or  the  imputation  of  bad  motives. 

Thus  these  two  families,  living  in  the  solitude  of  the 
mighty  forest,  and  impelled,  it  would  seem,  by  the  love 
of  sympathy  and  society,  to  companionship,  were  still 
separated  by  a  single  feeling  —  that  of  prejudice.  The 
two  men,  so  far  as  they  knew,  had  never  met,  and 
had  never  seen  each  other ;  but  that  strange  feeling  of 
the  human  breast,  that  judges  without  evidence  and 
decides  without  consulting  truth  or  reason,  parted  them 
like  a  brazen  wall.  Under  circumstances,  when  every 
thing  around  might  seem  to  enforce  kindness  upon  the 
heart ;  even  here,  amid  the  majesty  of  nature's  prime 
val  forest,  and  away  from  the  ferment  of  passions  en 
gendered  amid  towns  and  villages ;  to  this  lone  spot  the 
tempter  had  also  migrated,  and  put  into  the  bosom  of 
man  the  serpent  of  an  evil  passion. 

Thus  things  passed,  till  the  two  men  had  numbered 
nearly  eighty  years.  At  last,  the  rumor  came  to  the 
farmer  that  the  Frenchman  was  dying  —  and  it  was  re 
marked  that  a  smile,  as  of  pleasure,  passed  over  his 
furrowed  face.  Soon  after,  a  messenger  came,  saying 
that  the  dying  Frenchman  wished  to  see  his  neighbor, 
and  begging  him,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  to  comply  with 
his  request.  Thus  urged,  the  old  man  took  his  staff, 
proceeded  to  the  river,  and  being  set  across  in  a  boat, 
advanced  toward  the  Frenchman's  cabin.  As  he  ap 
proached  it,  he  saw  the  aged  man  reclining  upon  a 
bed  of  bear-skins,  beneath  a  group  of  trees,  near  his 
house.  By  his  side  were  his  children,  consisting  of  sev 
eral  grown-up  men  and  women.  They  were  kneeling, 


66  PREJUDICE. 

and  in  tears,  but  as  the  farmer  approached,  they  rose, 
and  at  a  sign  from  their  dying  father,  stood  a  little 
apart,  while  the  stranger  approached.  The  Frenchman 
held  out  his  hand,  and  said  in  a  feeble  voice,  "  Brother 
—  I  am  dying — let  us  part  in  peace." 

Our  old  farmer  took  the  cold  hand,  and  tears  —  un 
wonted  tears  —  coursed  down  his  cheeks.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  could  not  speak.  But  at  last  he  said  —  "  My 
friend,  you  speak  English  —  and  you  call  me  brother. 
I  thought  you  was  a  Frenchman,  and  I  have  ever 
esteemed  a  Frenchman  as  an  enemy.  And  God  knows 
I  have  cause  —  for  I  had  once  a  brother,  indeed.  He 
came  into  life  at  the  same  hour  as  myself —  for  we  were 
twins  :  and  all  our  early  days  were  passed  in  undivided 
companionship.  Our  hearts  were  one,  for  we  had  no 
hopes  or  fears,  no  wants  or  wishes,  no  pleasures  or 
pastimes,  that  were  not  mutually  shared.  But  in  an 
evil  hour  I  was  robbed  of  that  brother  by  the  French 
army.  My  father  fell  in  the  fight,  and  since  that  dark 
day,  my  life  has  been  shadowed  with  sorrow." 

A  convulsion  seemed  to  shake  the  emaciated  form 
of  the  sick  old  man,  and  for  a  time  he  could  not  speak. 
At  last,  he  faltered  forth — "  Have  you  never  seen  your 
brother  since  that  day  1 " 

"  Never  !  "  —  said  the  other. 

"  Then  you  see  him,  here !  "  said  the  Frenchman  — 
and  falling  backward  upon  his  couch  of  skins  —  a 
slight  tremor  ran  over  his  frame,  and  he  was  no  more. 

The  explanation  of  the  scene  was  this.  The  lifeless 
man  was  indeed  the  brother  of  the  farmer.  After  being 
taken  by  the  French  troops,  as  has  been  related,  he  was 


PREJUDICE.  67 

conducted  to  Montreal,  where  he  was  detained  for 
nearly  two  years.  After  his  release,  he  retraced  his 
steps  to  his  former  home,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio, 
but  found  his  birthplace  deserted :  he  also  learned  the 
death  of  his  father  and  the  departure  of  his  brother. 
For  years  he  sought  the  latter  in  vain,  and  at  last  re 
turned  to  Montreal.  Here  he  married,  and  after  some 
years,  removed,  with  a  numerous  family,  to  the  borders 
of  the  Sandusky.  He  at  length  discovered  that  his 
nearest  neighbor  was  his  brother ;  but  having  found  him 
self  repulsed  as  a  Frenchman,  and  treated  rather  like  a 
robber,  than  a  friend,  —  a  feeling  of  injury  and  dislike 
had  arisen  in  his  breast  —  and  therefore  he  kept  the  se 
cret  in  his  bosom,  till  it  was  spoken  in  the  last  moments 
of  existence. 

Thus  it  happened,  in  the  tale  we  have  told,  that  pre 
judice  obstinately  indulged,  prevented  the  discovery 
of  an  important  truth,  and  kept  the  mind  that  was  the 
subject  of  it,  wrapped  in  gloom  and  sorrow  for  years, 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  blessed  by  the  realiz 
ing  of  its  fondest  hopes.  And  thus  prejudice  often 
prevents  a  man  from  discovering  that  the  object  of  his 
dislike,  could  he  see  and  know  him  as  he  is  —  is  indeed 
a  man  —  and,  as  such,  a  brother. 


THE   RAINBOW  BRIDGE. 


LOVE  and  Hope  and  Youth,  together  — 
Travelling  once  in  stormy  weather, 
Met  a  deep  and  gloomy  tide, 
Flowing  swift  and  dark  and  wide. 
'T  was  named  the  river  of  Despair,  — 
And  many  a  wreck  was  floating  there ! 
The  urchins  paused,  with  faces  grave, 
Debating  how  to  cross  the  wave, 
When  lo!  the  curtain  of  the  storm 
Was  severed,  and  the  rainbow's  form 
Stood  against  the  parting  cloud, 
Emblem  of  peace  on  trouble's  shroud! 
Hope  pointed  to  the  signal  flying, 
And  the  three,  their  shoulders  plying, 
O'er  the  stream  the  light  arch  threw  — 
A  rainbow  bridge  of  loveliest  hue ! 
Now,  laughing  as  they  tripped  it  o'er, 
They  gaily  sought  the  other  shore : 
But  soon  the  hills  began  to  frown, 
And  the  bright  sun  went  darkly  down. 
Though  their  step  was  light  and  fleet, 
The  rainbow  vanished  'neath  their  feet,  — 
And  down  they  went,  —  the  giddy  things !  • 
But  Hope  put  forth  his  ready  wings,  — 


THE     RAINBOW     BRIDGE. 

And  clinging  Love  and  Youth  he  bore 
In  triumph  to  the  other  shore. 
But  ne'er  I  ween  should  mortals  deem 
On  rainbow  bridge  to  cross  a  stream, 
Unless  bright,  buoyant  Hope  is  nigh, 
And,  light  with  Love  and  Youth,  they  fly. 


69 


TOOT-PRINTS. 

A  PEASANT'S  cottage  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  wide 
common ;  and,  as  I  passed  it  in  the  morning,  the  scene 
around  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  the  purest  snow. 
This  had  fallen  during  the  night ;  and,  as  the  air  had 
been  still,  it  was  of  a  uniform  depth.  Not  a  foot-print, 
as  yet,  had  broken  its  surface ;  for  the  peasant  had  not 
gone  forth.  Not  even  the  track  of  the  familiar  cat  or 
sentinel  dog  was  visible  before  the  door.  I  passed  on ; 
and,  as  there  was  nothing  in  the  scene  to  fix  my  atten 
tion,  I  thought  no  more  of  it  at  the  time.  But,  as  eve 
ning  approached,  I  was  returning  to  my  home,  and 
again  I  passed  the  cottage.  I  now  remarked  that  the 
snow  around  it  was  not  unbroken  as  before ;  but  it  was 
marked  by  a  variety  of  feet  that  had  been  busy  during 
the  day  in  walking  hither  and  thither.  There  was  the 
impress  of  the  peasant's  hob-nailed  shoe ;  of  the  wife's 
more  delicate  slipper;  of  children's  feet,  of  two  sizes; 
and  then  of  a  cat  and  dog.  And  these  foot-prints  seemed 
to  tell  what  each  individual  had  done.  I  did  not  pause  to 
read  the  minute  record  of  each ;  but  a  hasty  glance  told 
of  the  labors  of  the  peasant,  and  of  his  visits  to  a  little 
thatched  barn ;  and  of  the  call  which  his  wife  had  made 
upon  a  neighbor  at  a  little  distance.  The  winding  and 
mazy  traces  of  the  children's  feet,  told  of  the  pranks 


FO  OT-PRINTS.  71 

and  frolics  of  young  and  thoughtless  life.  The  foot 
prints  of  the  cat  showed  that  she  had  prowled  beneath 
benches,  and  trees,  and  bushes,  in  search  of  mice ;  and 
the  tracks  of  the  dog  told  of  his  visits  to  the  road-side 
to  greet  the  passers-by. 

I  was  in  a  moralizing  mood,  and  there  was  a  mean 
ing  in  this  scene,  to  me,  which  I  did  not  forget.  It 
seemed  that  each  individual,  as  he  stepped  upon  that 
carpet  of  snow,  wrote  the  history  of  every  act,  and  left 
it  legible  to  all  eyes ;  and  I  thought  to  myself,  were  it 
really  so  in  all  our  thoughts  and  actions,  how  often 
would  the  writing  be  such  as  we  should  be  glad  to 
efface!  And  then,  again,  it  occurred  to  my  mind,  that 
such  a  record  is  actually  kept,  written  in  more  endur 
ing  characters  than  foot-prints  in  the  snow  ! 


IOVE    OF  NATURE. 


THERE  are  three  kinds  of  affectation  to  which  a  large 
portion  of  mankind  are  addicted.  Shakspeare  said  — 
without  one  particle  of  truth,  however  —  that  he  who 
hath  not  music  in  his  soul,  is  fit  for  treason,  stratagem, 
and  spoils !  The  interpretation  of  this  is,  that  he 
who  has  not  an  ear  for  music  is  a  scoundrel ;  to  avoid 
which  impolite  appellation,  every  body  professes  to  love 
music;  though,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  many  very 
excellent  people  detest  it. 

Every  body  pretends  to  be  fond  of  pictures,  —  every 
body  except  my  friend,  Parson  Flint.  He  is  an  honest 
man,  —  a  perfect  transparency, —  and  he  confesses  that 
he  could  never  raise  a  picture;  by  which  he  means 
that  to  his  eye  the  canvass  even  of  Raphael  is  but  a  flat 
surface,  without  distance  or  perspective,  and  possessing 
not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  world  of  realities. 
Such  honesty  of  confession  is  rare,  —  and  perhaps  such 
inaptitude  of  perception,  also.  But  how  many  persons 
are  there,  who  know  nothing  and  feel  nothing  of  the 
beauty  of  paintings,  and  who  yet  talk  of  them  in  terms  of 
rapture,  bestow  upon  them  all  the  admiring  epithets  in 
our  language,  and  pretend  to  point  out  their  peculiar 
beauties  with  the  air  of  that  compound  of  science  and 
sensibility  —  an  amateur ! 


LOVEOFNATURE.  73 

The  third  species  of  prevalent  affectation  is  that  of 
the  love  of  nature  —  a  love  common  upon  the  lips, 
though  seldom  in  the  heart.  Not  but  that  every  eye 
may  see  and  appreciate  the  difference  between  a  fair 
sky  and  a  foul  one,  between  a  winter  landscape  and  one 
that  is  redolent  of  spring.  There  are  few  who  do  not 
perceive  beauty  in  flowers,  in  rushing  waters,  in  waving 
woods,  in  far-off  mountains  wreathed  with  azure,  in 
meadows  decked  with  blossoms  gaudy  as  a  queen  with 
gems.  There  are  few,  indeed,  who  can  resist  the 
appeal  of  these  to  the  heart ;  but  if  there  are  any  such, 
they  are  generally  ostentatious  pretenders  to  the  love  of 
nature.  I  know  of  none  whose  souls  are  more  truly 
dead  to  the  voice  of  God  speaking  through  his  works, 
than  those  upon  whose  lips  you  constantly  hear  the 
words  "  beautiful,"  "  exquisite,"  "  delightful,"  "  charm 
ing,"  "  superb,"  "  romantic,"  "  delicious,"  &c.  &c. 

I  cannot  better  enforce  what  I  mean  than  by  giving 
a  sketch  from  life.  You  must  know,  fair  reader,  that  I 
am  a  country  gentleman,  and  a  bachelor ;  and,  living 
near  the  metropolis,  I  am  often  visited  by  my  city  ac 
quaintances,  especially  about  the  time  of  "  strawberries 
and  cream."  It  was  but  yesterday  that  I  was  favored 
with  a  call  from  Miss  Eleanor  Flower,  whom  every 
body  in  town  —  who  is  any  body  —  knows  to  be  a  lady 
of  the  first  rank  and  fashion.  She  has  had  all  the  advan 
tages  which  wealth  can  give,  —  such  as  instruction, 
travel,  society  ;  to  which  may  be  added  the  experience  of 
thirty  years  confessed,  besides  some  half  dozen  more, 
concealed  behind  curls,  lace,  and  other  necromantic 
arts  of  the  toilet. 


74  LOVEOFNATURE. 

Now,  Miss  Eleanor  Flower  is  a  lively  lady;  and 
yesterday  was  a  fair,  bright  day ;  and  June,  you  know, 
is  the  zenith  of  our  year.  So  we  met  joyously  ;  and  we 
walked  forth  into  the  garden,  and  then  nothing  would 
do  but  a  ramble  through  the  woods.  On  we  went, 
Miss  Flower,  my  simple  niece,  Alice  Dunn,  and  myself. 
Every  thing  was  indeed  beautiful;  and,  for  once,  my 
city  visiter  seemed  to  feel.  She  had,  it  is  true,  the 
usual  sign  of  affectation  and  stupidity  —  the  constant 
use  of  such  words  as  "  fine,"  "  exquisite,"  "beautiful," 
"  charming,"  —  the  unmeaning  generalities  by  which 
those  who  are  conscious  of  some  hypocritical  pretence, 
endeavor  to  hide  their  hypocrisy.  But  still  these  terms 
were  uttered  with  such  warmth  by  my  fair  friend,  that 
for  a  time  I  was  deceived.  I  began  to  feel  that  she  had 
a  soul;  and  her  hazel  eyes  really  looked  sentimental  — 
a  fact  which  goes  far  to  prove  a  theory  I  have  long 
I  maintained,  that  there  is  a  power  about  women  at  certain 
times,  which  resembles,  in  no  small  degree,  the  fatal 
fascination  imputed  to  the  rattlesnake —  a  power  which 
binds  its  victim  in  a  spell  of  bewildering  delight,  yet 
only  to  draw  him  down  to  destruction. 

Our  little  party  wandered  on  through  the  woods  for 
more  than  an  hour ;  and  all  was  delightful.  Miss 
Flower  fairly  exhausted  the  vocabulary  of  pleasure; 
and  nothing  seemed  amiss,  except  that  now  and  then 
she  was  a  little  horrified  at  a  toad ;  or  she  screamed 
slightly  at  a  bumble-bee  that  buzzed  saucily  in  her  ear, 
because  he  was  disturbed  in  his  breakfast  of  nectar 
amid  the  wild  honeysuckles;  or  perchance  she  made 
the  rather  ungraceful  and  impatient  sign  of  the  mus- 


LOVEOFNATURE.  75 

quito  —  a  sign  which  can  only  be  forgiven  by  those 
who  look  upon  women  as  human  creatures,  and  not  as 
angels. 

At  last  we  were  fairly  tired,  and  all  three  sat  down 
upon  the  bank  of  a  rivulet  to  rest.  I  was  seated  apart ; 
and,  as  the  two  ladies  were  arranging  some  little  matters 
of  dress  which  had  been  disturbed  by  the  thorns  and 
brambles  of  our  walk,  it  was  proper  for  me  to  appear 
absorbed  in  a  brown  study.  I  therefore  looked  into 
the  brook,  and  was  soon  considered  out  of  earshot 
by  my  companions.  My  feelings  were,  however,  so 
much  interested  in  Miss  Flower,  that  I  distinctly  heard 
the  following  conversation,  though  I  earnestly  strove 
to  avoid  it : 

Miss  F.  Really,  the  country  is  a  horrid  bore.  It 
may  be  well  enough  to  talk  about ;  but  what  is  it,  after 
all  ?  Bugs  and  bumble-bees,  and  toads  and  musqui- 
toes  !  These  are  the  whole  of  it. 

Alice.  But  you  seem  to  forget  the  flowers  you 
praised  so  much  a  short  time  since,  to  my  uncle. 

Miss  F.  Flowers  are  very  well ;  for  they  furnish 
designs  for  the  milliners.  But  art  is  superior  to  nature  ; 
for  artificial  flowers  do  not  fade  arid  fall  to  pieces; 
besides,  they  have  a  pleasing  effect  upon  a  bonnet  or 
a  flounce;  while  natural  flowers,  even  according  to  the 
poet,  are  often 

"  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

No,  no ;  flowers  are  nothing  in  themselves ;  but  they 
are  turned  to  good  account  by  art.  Thus  a  flower 


76  LOVEOFNATURE. 

sugggested  that  beautiful  dress  of  the  time  of  Henri 
IV.,  in  which  a  lady  was  attired  so  as  to  have  the  form 
of  a  blossom  —  the  high,  pointed  ruff  representing  the 
calyx;  the  head,  dressed  long  and  smooth,  being  an 
image  of  the  pistil. 

Alice.  But  what  do  you  think  of  the  woods?  You 
spoke  of  them  in  terms  of  rapture,  a  short  time  ago. 

Miss  F.  O,  that 's  a  mere  matter  of  fashion.  You 
must  talk  in  that  kind  of  way.  But  what  can  be  more 
detestable  than  to  toil  along  in  a  rough  path,  spoiling 
your  dress,  growing  red  in  the  face  and  neck,  and 
tormented  with  musquitoes?  It's  enough  to  ruin  the 
temper  of  a  saint.  No,  no ;  one  must  go  to  the  country 
once  in  a  while,  and  take  a  walk  in  the  woods,  just  to 
speak  of  it.  But  that 's  all.  It  is  sometimes  necessary 
to  be  sentimental ;  for  there  are  some  persons  who  are 
taken  with  that  sort  of  thing,  and  there  is  no  way  of 
introducing  sentimentality  so  easily  as  to  begin  with 
the  country.  Very  young  men  and  very  old  bachelors 
are  caught  with  thin  webs ;  but  they  must  be  spread  in 
the  country.  You  must  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage;  of 
shady  walks ;  of  retired  woods ;  of  winding  dells ;  of 
grottoes  cooled  by  waters  breathing  forth  soft  music ; 
of  twittering  birds,  billing,  cooing,  and  building  nests ; 
of  morning,  with  its  refreshing  dews  shining  like  dia 
monds  on  every  leaf;  of  evening,  made  for  lovers,  and 
the  moon,  that  favors  all,  yet  reveals  nothing. 

Alice.  Really,  this  is  quite  a  new  view  of  things. 
Pray,  were  you  not  in  earnest  when  you  were  speaking 
to  my  uncle  so  warmly  about  the  "  romantic  eloquence 
of  twilight," 


LOVEOFNATURE.  77 

Miss  F.  In  earnest?  Why,  Alice,  are  you  yet  a 
child?  Do  you  really  suppose  I  could  be  in  earnest? 
It  is  very  well,  no  doubt,  to  talk  about  evening,  and 
twilight,  and  the  starry  canopy  of  heaven.  But  while 
you  are  walking  along,  discoursing  of  these  things,  it 
is  ten  to  one  that  a  horn-bug  smites  you  full  in  the 
face. 

Alice.     A  horn-bug? 

Miss  F.  Yes,  a  horn-bug  —  saucy  thing !  —  and  I  Jd 
rather  meet  a  man  in  the  dark  than  a  horn-bug ! 

This  remark  drew  an  exclamation  from  Alice ;  and 
I  could  not  forbear  turning  round  and  looking  the 
two  ladies  in  the  face.  This  put  a  sudden  stop  to  the 
dialogue ;  and  now,  being  fully  rested,  we  set  out  and 
returned  home.  Miss  Eleanor  Flower  soon  departed ; 
and  I  forgot  her  in  reading  the  following  description 
of  a  genuine  child  of  Nature,  by  old  Davenant ; 

"  To  Astragon  Heaven  for  succession  gave 

One  onely  pledge,  and  Bertha  was  her  name ; 
Whose  mother  slept  where  flow'rs  grew  on  her  grave, 
And  she  succeeded  her  in  face  and  fame. 

"  Her  beauty  princes  durst  not  hope  to  use, 

Unless,  like  poets,  for  their  morning  theam ; 
And  her  minde's  beauty  they  would  rather  choose, 
Which  did  the  light  in  beauty's  lantern  seem. 

"  She  ne  'r  saw  courts,  yet  courts  could  have  undone. 

With  untaught  looks,  and  an  unpractised  heart, 
Her  nets,  the  most  prepar'd  could  never  shun, 
For  .Nature  spread  them  in  the  scorn  of  Art. 

"  She  never  had  in  busie  cities  bin ; 

Nc'r  warm'd  with  hopes,  nor  ere  allayed  with  fears ; 
Not  seeing  punishment,  could  guess  no  sin  ; 
And  sin  not  seeing,  ne'r  had  use  of  tears." 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

IN  the  picturesque  State  of  Connecticut,  there  is 
not  a  spot  more  beautiful  than  the  village  of  Pompe- 
raug.  It  is  situated  not  very  far  from  the  western 
border  of  the  State,  and  derives  its  name  from  a  small 
tribe  of  Indians,  who  once  inhabited  it.  It  presents  a 
small,  but  level  valley,  surrounded  by  hills,  with  a  bright 
stream  rippling  through  its  meadows.  The  tops  of  the 
high  grounds  which  skirt  the  valley  are  covered  with 
forests,  but  the  slopes  are  smooth  with  cultivation, 
nearly  to  their  summits.  In  the  time  of  verdure,  the 
valley  shows  a  vividness  of  green  like  that  of  velvet, 
while  the  forests  are  dark  with  the  rich  hues  supposed 
to  be  peculiar  to  the  climate  of  England. 

The  village  of  Pomperaug  consists  now  of  about  two 
hundred  houses,  with  three  white  churches,  arranged 
on  a  street  passing  along  the  eastern  margin  of  the 
valley.  At  the  distance  of  about  sixty  rods  from  this 
street,  and  running  parallel  to  it  for  nearly  a  mile,  is  a 
rock,  or  ledge  of  rocks,  of  considerable  elevation. 
From  the  top  of  this,  a  distinct  survey  of  the  place 
may  be  obtained  almost  at  a  glance.  Beginning  at  the 
village,  the  spectator  may  count  every  house,  and  mea 
sure  every  garden ;  he  may  compare  the  three  churches, 
which  now  seem  drawn  close  together ;  he  may  trace  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.     79 

winding  path  of  the  river  by  the  trees  which  bend  over 
its  waters;  he  may  enumerate  the  white  farm-houses 
which  dot  the  surface  of  the  valley ;  he  may  repose  his 
eye  on  the  checkered  carpet  which  lies  unrolled  before 
him,  or  it  may  climb  to  the  horizon  over  the  dark-blue 
hills  which  form  the  border  of  this  enchanting  picture. 

The  spot  which  we  have  thus  described  did  not  long 
lie  concealed  from  the  prying  sagacity  of  the  first  set 
tlers  of  the  colony  of  New  Haven.  Though  occupied 
by  a  tribe  of  savages,  as  before  intimated,  it  was  very 
early  surveyed  by  more  than  one  of  the  emigrants.  In 
the  general  rising  of  the  Indians  in  Philip's  war,  this 
tribe  took  part  with  the  Pequods,  and  a  large  portion 
of  them  shared  in  their  destruction.  The  chief  himself 
was  killed.  His  son,  still  a  boy,  with  a  remnant  of  his 
father's  people,  returned  to  their  native  valley,  and  lived 
for  a  time  on  terms  of  apparent  submission  to  the 
English. 

The  period  had  now  arrived  when  the  young  chief 
had  reached  the  age  of  manhood.  He  took,  as  was  the 
custom  with  his  fathers,  the  name  of  his  tribe,  and  was 
accordingly  called  Pomperaug.  He  was  tall,  and  finely 
formed,  with  an  eye  that  gleamed  like  the  flashes  of  a 
diamond.  He  was  such  an  one  as  the  savage  would  look 
upon  with  idolatry.  His  foot  was  swift  as  that  of  the 
deer ;  his  arrow  sure  as  the  pursuit  of  the  eagle ;  his 
sagacity  penetrating  as  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Such  was  Pomperaug.  But  his  nation  was  passing 
away,  and  but  fifty  of  his  own  tribe  now  dwelt  in  the 
valley  in  which  his  fathers  had  hunted  for  ages.  The 
day  of  their  dominion  had  gone.  There  was  a  spell 


80     THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

over  the  dark  warrior.  The  Great  Spirit  had  sealed 
his  doom.  So  thought  the  remaining  Indians  in  the 
valley  of  Pomperaug,  and  they  sullenly  submitted  to  a 
fate  which  they  could  not  avert. 

It  was  therefore  without  resistance,  and,  indeed,  with 
expressions  of  amity,  that  they  received  a  small  com 
pany  of  English  settlers  into  the  valley.  This  company 
consisted  of  about  thirty  persons  from  the  New-Haven 
colony,  under  the  spiritual  charge  of  the  Reverend 
Noah  Benison.  He  was  a  man  of  great  age,  but  still 
of  uncommon  mental  and  bodily  vigor.  His  years  had 
passed  the  bourn  of  threescore  and  ten,  and  his  hair 
was  white  as  snow.  But  his  tall  and  broad  form  was 
yet  erect,  and  his  cane,  of  smooth  hickory  with  a 
golden  head,  was  evidently  a  thing  "  more  of  ornament 
than  use." 

Mr.  Benison  had  brought  with  him  the  last  remnant 
of  his  family.  She  was  the  daughter  of  his  only  son, 
who,  with  his  wife,  had  slept  many  years  in  the  tomb. 
Her  name  was  Mary ;  and  well  might  she  be  the  object 
of  all  the  earthly  affections  which  still  beat  in  the  bosom 
of  one  whom  death  had  made  acquainted  with  sorrow, 
and  who  but  for  her  hadjbeen  left  alone. 

Mary  Benison  was  now  seventeen  years  of  age.  She 
had  received  her  education  in  England,  and  had  been 
but  a  few  months  in  America.  She  was  tall  and  slender, 
with  a  dark,  expressive  eye,  whose  slow  movements 
seemed  full  of  soul  and  sincerity.  Her  hair  was  of  a  glossy 
black,  parted  upon  a  forehead  of  ample  and  expressive 
beauty.  When  at  rest,  her  appearance  was  not  striking ; 
but,  if  she  spoke  or  moved,  she  fixed  the  attention  of 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.     81 

every  beholder  by  the  dignity  of  her  air,  and  the  tone 
of  tender,  yet  serious  sentiment,  which  was  peculiar  to 
her. 

The  settlers  had  been  in  the  valley  but  a  few  months, 
when  some  matter  of  business  relative  to  a  purchase  of 
land,  brought  Pomperaug  to  the  hut  of  Mr.  Benison. 
It  was  a  bright  morning  in  autumn,  and  while  he  was 
talking  with  Mr.  Benison  at  the  door,  Mary,  who  had 
been  gathering  flowers  in  the  woods,  passed  by  them 
and  entered  the  hut.  The  eye  of  the  young  Indian 
followed  her  with  a  gaze  of  entrancement.  His  face 
gleamed  as  if  he  had  seen  a  vision  of  more  than  earthly 
beauty.  But  this  emotion  was  visible  only  for  a  mo 
ment.  With  the  habitual  self-command  of  a  savage,  he 
turned  again  to  Mr.  Benison,  and  calmly  pursued  the 
subject  which  occasioned  their  meeting. 

Pomperaug  went  away,  but  he  carried  the  image  of 
Mary  with  him.  He  retired  to  his  wigwam,  but  it  did 
not  please  him.  He  went  to  the  top  of  the  rock,  at  the 
foot  of  which  his  hut  was  situated,  and  which  now  goes 
under  the  name  of  Pomperaug's  Castle,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  river,  which  was  flashing  in  the  slant 
rays  of  the  morning.  He  turned  away,  and  sent  his  long 
gaze  over  the  checkered  leaves  of  the  forest,  which,  like 
a  sea,  spread  over  the  valley.  He  was  still  dissatisfied. 
With  a  single  leap  he  sprang  from  the  rock,  and,  alight 
ing  on  his  feet,  snatched  his  bow  and  took  the  path 
which  led  into  the  forest.  In  a  few  moments  he  came 
back,  and  seating  himself  on  the  rock,  brooded  for  some 
hours  in  silence. 

The  next  morning,  Pomperaug  repaired  to  the  house 

8 


82     THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

of  Mr.  Benison,  to  finish  the  business  of  the  preceding 
day.  He  had  before  signified  an  inclination  to  accede 
to  the  terms  proposed  by  Mr.  Benison;  but  he  now 
started  unexpected  difficulties.  On  being  asked  the  rea 
son,  he  answered  as  follows : 

"  Listen,  father  —  hear  a  red  man  speak !  Look  into 
the  air,  and  you  see  the  eagle.  The  sky  is  his  home ; 
and  doth  the  eagle  love  his  home  ?  Will  he  barter  it 
for  the  sea  ?  Look  into  the  river,  and  ask  the  fish  that 
is  there  if  he  will  sell  it?  Go  to  the  dark-skinned 
hunter,  and  demand  of  him  if  he  will  part  with  his 
forests  1  Yet,  father,  I  will  part  with  my  forests,  if  you 
will  give  me  the  singing-bird  that  is  in  thy  nest." 

"  Savage,"  said  the  pilgrim,  with  a  mingled  look  of 
disgust  and  indignation,  "  will  the  lamb  lie  down  in  the 
den  of  the  wolf  I  Never!  Dream  not  of  it.  I  would 
sooner  see  her  die.  Name  it  not."  As  he  spoke,  he 
struck  his  cane  forcibly  on  the  ground,  and  his  broad 
figure  seemed  to  expand  and  grow  taller,  while  his  eye 
gleamed  and  the  muscles  of  his  brow  contracted  with  a 
lowering  and  angry  expression.  The  change  of  the  old 
man's  appearance  was  sudden  and  striking.  The  air 
and  manner  of  the  Indian,  too,  was  changed.  There 
was  now  a  kindled  fire  in  his  eye,  a  proud  dignity  in  his 
manner,  which  a  moment  before  was  not  there ;  they 
had  stolen  unseen  upon  him,  with  that  imperceptible 
progress  by  which  the  dull  colors  of  the  snake,  when  he 
becomes  enraged,  are  succeeded  by  the  glowing  hues  of 
the  rainbow. 

The  two  now  parted,  and  Pomperaug  would  not  again 
enter  into  any  negotiations  for  a  sale  of  his  lands.  He 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.     83 

kept  himself,  indeed,  aloof  from  the  English,  and  cul 
tivated  rather  a  hostile  spirit  in  his  people  toward  them. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  difficulties  soon  grew 
up  between  the  two  parties,  and  violent  feelings  were 
shortly  excited  on  both  sides.  These  soon  broke  out 
into  open  quarrels,  and  one  of  the  white  men  was  shot 
by  a  savage,  lurking  in  the  woods.  This  determined 
the  settlers  to  seek  instant  revenge;  and  accordingly 
they  followed  the  Indians  into  the  broken  and  rocky 
districts  which  lie  east  of  the  valley,  whither,  expecting 
pursuit,  they  had  retreated. 

It  was  about  an  hour  before  sunset,  when  the  Eng 
lish,  consisting  of  twenty  well-armed  men,  led  by  their 
reverend  pastor,  were  marching  through  a  deep  ravine, 
about  two  miles  east  of  the  town.  The  rocks  on  either 
side  were  lofty;  and  so  narrow  was  the  dell,  that  the 
shadows  of  night  had  already  gathered  over  it.  The 
pursuers  had  sought  their  enemy  the  whole  day  in  vain, 
and,  having  lost  all  trace  of  them,  they  were  now  return 
ing  to  their  homes.  Suddenly  a  wild  yell  burst  from 
the  rocks  at  their  feet,  and  twenty  savages  sprang  up 
before  them.  An  arrow  pierced  the  breast  of  the  pil 
grim  leader,  and  he  fell.  Two  Indians  were  shot,  and 
the  remainder  fled.  Several  of  the  English  were 
wounded,  but  none  mortally,  save  the  aged  pastor. 

With  mournful  silence  they  bore  back  the  body  of 
their  father.  He  was  buried  in  a  sequestered  nook 
of  the  forest,  and,  with  a  desolate  and  breaking  heart, 
the  orphan  Mary  turned  away  from  his  grave,  to  be  for 
the  first  time  alone  in  their  humble  house  in  the  wilder 
ness. 


84  THE     LEGEND     OF     BETHEL     ROCK. 


A  year  passed.  The  savages  had  disappeared,  and 
the  rock  on  which  the  pilgrim  met  his  death  had  been 
consecrated  by  many  prayers.  His  blood  was  still  visi 
ble  on  the  spot,  and  his  people  often  came  with  rever 
ence  to  kneel  there,  and  offer  up  their  petitions.  The 
place  they  called  Bethel  Rock ;  and  piously  they  deemed 
that  their  hearts  were  visited  here  with  the  richest  gifts 
of  heavenly  grace. 

It  was  a  sweet  evening  in  summer  when  Mary  Beni- 
son,  for  the  last  time,  went  to  spend  an  hour  at  this  holy 
spot.  Long  had  she  knelt,  and  most  fervently  had  she 
prayed.  O,  who  can  tell  the  bliss  of  that  communion, 
to  which  a  pure  heart  is  admitted  in  the  hours  of  soli 
tude  and  silence!  The  sun  went  down,  and  as  the  veil 
of  evening  fell,  the  full  moon  climbed  over  the  eastern 
ledge,  pouring  its  silver  light  into  the  valley;  and  Mary 
was  still  kneeling,  still  communing  with  Him  who  seeth 
in  secret. 

At  length  a  slight  noise,  like  the  crushing  of  a  leaf, 
woke  her  from  her  trance ;  and  with  quickness  and  agi 
tation  she  set  out  on  her  return.  Alarmed  at  her  dis 
tance  from  home  at  such  an  hour,  she  proceeded  with 
great  rapidity.  She  was  obliged  to  climb  up  the  face 
of  the  rocks  with  care,  as  the  darkness  rendered  it  a 
critical  and  dangerous  task.  At  length  she  reached 
the  top.  Standing  upon  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  she  then 
turned  a  moment  to  look  back  upon  the  valley.  The 
moon  was  shining  full  upon  the  vale,  and  she  gazed 
with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  delight  upon  the  sea  of  silvery 
leaves ,  which  slept  in  deathlike  repose  beneath  her. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.     85 

She  then  turned  to  pursue  her  path  homeward;  but 
what  was  her  amazement  to  see  before  her,  in  the  full 
moonlight,  the  tall  form  of  Pomperaug !  She  shrieked, 
and,  swift  as  his  own  arrow,  she  sprung  over  the  dizzy 
cliff.  The  Indian  listened;  there  was  a  moment  of 
silence,  then  a  heavy  sound,  and  the  dell  was  still  as  the 
tomb. 

The  fate  of  Mary  was  known  only  to  Pomperaug.  He 
buried  her,  with  a  lover's  care,  amid  the  rocks  of  the 
glen.  Then,  bidding  adieu  to  his  native  valley,  he 
joined  his  people,  who  had  retired  to  the  banks  of  the 
Housatonic. 

****** 

Almost  half  a  century  subsequent  to  this  event,  a 
rumor  ran  through  the  village  of  Pomperaug,  that  some 
Indians  were  seen  at  night,  bearing  a  heavy  burden 
along  the  margin  of  the  river,  which  swept  the  base  of 
Pomperaug's  Castle.  In  the  morning,  a  spot  was  found 
on  a  gentle  hill  near  by,  where  the  fresh  earth  showed 
that  the  ground  had  been  recently  broken.  A  low  heap 
of  stones  on  the  place  revealed  the  secret.  They  re 
main  there  to  this  day ;  and  the  little  mound  is  shown 
by  the  villagers  as  Pomperaug's  grave. 


8* 


SELF-DECEPTION. 

IT  is  a  startling  paradox,  but  nevertheless  it  is  true, 
that  mankind  sometimes  set  about  cheating  themselves. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  mazy  labyrinths  of  the  human 
heart  so  strange,  so  absurd,  as  self-deception.  That  a 
man  should  enter  into  a  conspiracy  against  himself; 
that  one  part  of  him  should  play  hide-and-seek  with 
another ;  that  the  sly  and  trickish  intellect  should  put  on 
a  mask  and  seek  to  dupe  honest  plodding  conscience  ;  is 
one  of  those  anomalies  in  human  nature,  which  may 
well  excite  our  utmost  wonder.  Perhaps  the  true  ex 
planation  of  this  problem  may  be,  that  conscience,  like 
some  divinity  within,  acts  without  our  volition,  and  is 
felt  to  be  an  independent  agent.  We  regard  it,  per 
haps,  as  a  spy  upon  our  thoughts,  or  as  filling  the  place 
of  the  All-seeing  judge,  and  if  we  hoodwink  this,  we 
may  fancy  that  our  actions  pass  unseen  and  unrecorded. 
However  this  may  be,  a  familiar  instance  will  render 
the  fact  of  self-deception  plain  and  palpable. 

A  poor  man  at  the  end  of  a  week's  work,  has  five 
dollars  in  his  pocket,  which  his  family  needs  for  their 
comfort.  As  he  passes  the  door  of  a  grog-shop,  the 
question  arises,  shall  I  stop  and  expend  this  money  in 
gambling  and  licentiousness  with  these  boon  compan 
ions  -—  or  shall  I  go  home,  and  bestow  it  in  blessings 


SELF-DECEPTION.  87 

on  my  family  1     The  question  is,  which  is  the  best  way 
—  which  will  yield  the  man  most  happiness  ? 

Here  truth  and  conscience  present  the  whole  case. 
"If  you  go  home,  you  will  see  that  place  rendered 
cheerful  and  bright  by  your  presence,  and  the  results  of 
your  toil.  You  will  share  in  the  confidence  and  bles 
sings  of  a  cheerful  wife,  and  the  affection  of  happy 
children.  If  you  do  otherwise  —  if  you  spend  your 
money  here,  you  will  reduce  yourself  to  the  degrada 
tion  of  a  brute,  and  on  the  morrow  you  will  suffer  all 
the  pangs  of  outraged  nerves,  rendered  more  poignant 
by  the  reproaches  of  conscience  setting  before  you  a 
wife  deserted — a  family  neglected  —  and  the  paradise 
of  home  converted  into  a  scene  of  misery,  because  a  hus 
band  and  a  father  turns  spoiler  and  betrayer." 

Here  then  is  the  whole  truth,  fairly  presented :  but 
now  comes  the  process  of  self-deception.  A  veil  is 
dexterously  drawn  over  this  side  of  the  picture,  or  per 
haps  it  is  forcibly  thrust  out  of  view  —  while  the  other 
is  contemplated  with  a  fond  and  favoring  fancy.  The 
mad  delights  of  the  bowl,  the  fierce  revelry,  the  be 
wildering  joys  of  intoxication,  come  over  the  yielding 
fancy  like  a  spell.  Thus  passion  presses  its  instant 
claims,  and  the  conquest  is  already  made.  The  vic 
tim,  though  he  has  actually  made  up  his  mind,  still 
pretends  to  one  part  of  himself,  that  he  has  not  done  so. 
"I  will  go  home  to  my  family,"  says  he,  whispering  in 
the  ear  of  conscience  —  at  the  same  time,  he  enters  the 
gate  of  perdition.  "  I  will  step  in  and  take  one  draught, 
and  then  I  will  go  home."  He  goes  in,  and  is  lost. 
/  Such  is  self-deception  —  such  is  the  enemy  within 


88  SELF-DECEPTION. 

the  fortress,  too  often  ready  to  betray  it.  In  morals,  as 
well  as  in  war,  there  are  more  garrisons  lost  by  treason 
in  the  camp,  than  by  the  assailants  without  the  wall. 
The  great  strife  in  the  pursuit  of  truth  is,  to  guard 
against  self-betrayal. 

One  of  the  commonest  instances  of  self-delusion,  is 
that  in  which  a  man's  wishes,  passions,  or  interest  lie  on 
one  side  of  a  question.  In  this  case,  he  covers  up  the 
truth  that  presents  itself  on  the  side  against  his  wishes, 
or  at  least  he  puts  it  in  the  back-ground,  as  of  little 
weight  or  importance ;  while  he  brings  into  full  light, 
and  bestows  exaggerated  consideration  upon,  those  cir 
cumstances  which  accord  with  his  desires.  He  thus 
uses  in  dealing  with  himself  two  sets  of  weights,  and 
both  of  them  false.  He  weighs  those  things  he  wishes 
to  depreciate,  with  heavy  weights ;  and  those  he  wishes 
to  have  preponderate,  he  weighs  with  light  ones.  Un 
der  this  process,  nothing  is  correctly  estimated  —  noth 
ing  is  seen  in  its  proper  place  or  proportions.  The 
mind  is  used  as  a  spy-glass  —  in  looking  through  it 
one  way,  all  the  objects  are  diminished  and  remote; 
reverse  it,  and  the  scene  is  brought  close  to  the  eye, 
and  with  enlarged  dimensions. 

Attachment  to  particular  opinions  is  a  common  source 
of  self-delusion.  A  man's  pride,  his  habits  of  thought, 
his  credit  for  sagacity,  his  self-esteem,  all  unite  to  cre 
ate  in  him  a  desire  to  sustain  and  establish  the  creed 
in  religion  or  politics,  with  which  he  is  connected. 
Under  such  circumstances  he  will  often  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  plainest  and  most  palpable  facts.  An  instance  of 
this  is  furnished  by  one  of  the  English  missionaries  to 


SELF-DECEPTION.  89 

India.  It  appears  that  this  individual  had  an  interview 
with  a  Hindoo  priest,  in  which  the  doctrine  of  transmi 
gration  was  under  discussion.  The  Bramin  main 
tained  this  point  of  faith,  and  as  one  of  its  inferences, 
contended  that  it  was  wrong  even  to  destroy  insects,  for 
these  were  doubtless  associated  with  souls  in  some  stage 
of  transmigration.  To  show  the  priest  the  impossibility 
of  observing  this  rule,  the  missionary  argued  that  the 
earth  and  the  air  were  thronged  with  insects,  so  minute 
as  to  escape  observation,  and  that  at  every  step  in  walk 
ing,  we  necessarily  crushed  numbers  of  them.  "  Nay, 
more,"  said  the  missionary,  "  the  clearest  water  is 
filled  with  little  animals,  and  at  every  draught,  you 
swallow  hundreds  of  these  living  things." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it  —  I  will  not  believe  it," — said 
the  Bramin. 

"  Then  will  I  prove  it  to  you," — said  the  missionary, 
—  and  taking  a  microscope  from  his  pocket,  applied  it 
to  a  glass  of  water,  and  showed  to  the  astonished  Bra 
min  that  it  was  alive  with  insects  of  varied  forms,  darting 
and  wriggling  about  with  great  activity.  The  priest 
gazed  through  the  glass  for  a  moment  —  and  then  dash 
ing  the  instrument  to  the  floor,  and  crushing  it  in  pieces 
with  his  heel,  exclaimed  — "  Still  I  will  not  believe 
it!" 

Thus  it  is  in  a  thousand  instances  —  the  wish  is 
father  to  the  thought :  that  our  feelings  get  the  better  of 
our  understandings :  that  the  lamp  of  truth  is  volun 
tarily  put  out,  and  some  illusive  meteor  becomes  our 
chosen  guide. 

Prejudice  is  a  common  source  of  self-delusion.    The 


90  SELF-DECEPTION. 

mode  by  which  it  operates  is,  to  blind  the  mind  to 
every  truth  which  is  favorable  to  its  object,  while  every 
thing  that  goes  to  sustain  or  establish  it,  is  received, 
believed  and  exaggerated. 

"  There  is  something,"  says  a  certain  writer,  "  ex 
ceedingly  curious  in  the  constitution  and  operation  of 
PREJUDICE.  It  has  the  singular  ability  of  accommoda 
ting  itself  to  all  the  possible  varieties  of  the  human 
mind.  Some  passions  and  vices  are  but  thinly  scattered 
among  mankind,  and  find  only  here  and  there  a  fitness 
of  reception.  But  prejudice,  like  the  spider,  makes 
every  where  its  home.  It  has  neither  taste,  nor  choice 
of  place,  and  all  that  it  requires  is  room.  There  is 
scarcely  a  situation,  except  fire  and  water,  in  which  a 
spider  will  not  live.  So  let  the  mind  be  as  naked  as  the 
walls  of  an  empty  and  forsaken  tenement,  gloomy  as  a 
dungeon,  or  ornamented  with  the  richest  abilities  of 
thinking;  let  it  be  hot,  cold,  dark  or  light,  lonely  or 
inhabited,  still  PREJUDICE,  if  undisturbed,  will  fill  it 
with  cobwebs,  and  live,  like  the  spider,  where  there 
seems  nothing  to  live  on. 

"  If  the  one  prepares  her  food  by  poisoning  it  to  her 
palate  and  use,  the  other  does  the  same ;  and  as  several 
of  our  passions  are  strongly  characterized  by  the  ani 
mal  world,  PREJUDICE  may  be  denominated  the  spider 
of  the  mind!" 

Such  is  this  evil  passion  —  this  mingled  obliquity  of 
mind  and  heart.  Knowing  it  to  be  such,  we  still  yield 
to  it,  and  in  a  large  share  of  our  actions  toward  man 
kind,  we  permit  ourselves  to  be  swayed,  or  perchance 
governed  by  it.  This  bad  counsellor  is  often  admitted 


SELF-DECEPTION.  91 

into  village  neighborhoods,  and  not  unfrequently  keeps 
persons  apart,  or  even  in  a  state  of  active  hostility,  who 
are  entitled  to  each  others  esteem,  and  who,  could  they 
see  each  other  as  they  really  are,  would  be  united  in 
that  friendship  which  is  founded  upon  mutual  confi 
dence  and  mutual  regard. 

Beside  these  well-known  sources  of  self-delusion,  it 
may  be  well  to  remark  that  habit  exercises  an  almost 
omnipotent  control  over  us ;  those  therefore  who  seek  the 
guidance  of  truth,  should  be  careful  to  guard  against 
errors  from  its  influence.  This  is  the  more  necessary, 
from  the  fact  that  what  we  have  often  repeated,  has 
acquired  a  species  of  authority  over  our  minds,  from 
repetition  alone.  We  are  not  only  apt  to  do  as  we  have 
done  before;  not  only  are  the  wheels  of  thought  in 
clined  to  slide  into  and  follow  out  the  tracks  which  they 
have  themselves  made  —  but  we  are  reluctant  to  doubt, 
to  question  even,  whether  a  path  we  have  often  trodden 
is  the  right  one.  Thus,  in  the  formation  of  our  habits 
we  voluntarily  mark  out  roads  which  we  know  our  feet 
are  likely  to  follow. 

Among  the  habits  of  mind  most  to  be  feared,  is  that 
of  credulity — an  indulgence  of  the  disposition  to  be 
lieve  without  evidence.  This  is  not,  perhaps,  an  un- 
amiable  characteristic  —  certainly  it  is  often  associated 
with  great  moral  excellence.  But  to  what  labyrinths 
of  error  does  it  not  lead  ?  —  of  what  delusions  is  it  not 
the  parent.  It  is  to  this  species  of  credulity  that  tales 
of  ghosts  and  haunted  houses  are  addressed.  It  is  for 
such  morbid  appetites  that  legends  of  witchcraft  and 
necromancy  are  handed  down  from  age  to  age.  The 


92  SELF-DECEPTION. 

proper  remedy  for  the  disease  of  credulity  is,  to  bring 
every  thing  as  far  as  possible  to  the  test  of  common 
sense.  A  calm  inquiry  into  facts  will  usually  exor 
cise  the  most  inveterate  ghost,  and  restore  any  haunted 
house  to  a  good  reputation.  A  tradition  of  Charles  II. 
of  England  furnishes  a  hint  on  this  subject.  He  was  a 
member  of  some  learned  society,  where  it  was  the  cus 
tom  to  discuss  profound  questions  of  philosophy.  On 
one  occasion  his  majesty  intimated  a  desire  to  propound 
an  inquiry  —  whereupon  a  respectful  silence  was  ob 
served. 

"  I  wish  to  ask,"  said  his  majesty,  "  of  this  learned 
society,  why  it  is  that  when  you  put  a  fish  into  a  vessel 
filled  with  water,  it  will  not  run  over?" 

Various  solutions  of  this  curious  fact  were  offered. 
One  learned  philosopher  explained  it  upon  one  theory, 
and  another  upon  another  theory.  But  none  of  these 
seemed  quite  satisfactory,  and  it  was  at  last  agreed  that 
no  one  present  could  answer  the  inquiry.  It  was  there 
fore  requested  that  his  majesty  would  offer  his  royal  views 
upon  the  matter.  Thus  solicited,  King  Charles  spoke 
as  follows :  "  I  asked  you,  gentlemen,  why,  if  a  fish  is 
put  into  a  tub  full  of  water,  it  will  not  run  over.  I 
have  only  to  say,  that  it  will  run  over." 

The  first  inquiry,  then,  in  almost  all  cases,  when  any 
extraordinary  statement  is  made,  should  be  this  —  what 
are  the  facts?  This  will  often  save  a  vast  deal  of  won 
dering,  guessing,  and  philosophizing,  which  are  usually 
the  entrances  —  the  gateways  to  the  mists  and  mazes 
of  self-delusion. 

Another  pernicious  habit,  is  that  of  incredulity.    The 


~\ 

SELF-DECEPTION.  93 

man  that  doubts  or  denies  every  thing,  is  quite  as  likely 
to  be  deceived,  to  be  the  dupe  of  error,  as  the  credu 
lous  man.  This  habit  too,  like  all  others,  grows  by  in 
dulgence,  until  one  may  almost  doubt  his  identity  or  his 
existence.  It  soon  becomes  a  part  of  character,  and 
then  is  usually  associated  with  an  ill  opinion  of  man 
kind,  and  not  unfrequently  leads  to  habitual  satire  and 
spleen.  I  once  knew  a  person  of  this  species,  who  was 
called  upon  as  a  witness  to  the  reputation  of  one  of  his 
neighbors.  When  asked  by  the  lawyer  what  the  character 
of  the  witness  was  —  he  replied,  "  bad,  sir,  —  very  bad." 

"  But,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  wish  to  know  the  char 
acter  of  this  man  for  truth  and  veracity." 

"  Bad,  sir  —  very  bad,  "  said  the  witness. 

"  But,"  inquired  the  other,  "  I  wish  to  know  if  the 
man's  character  for  truth  and  veracity  is  as  good  as 
that  of  mankind  in  general  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  witness;  "I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  is  as  good  as  that  of  mankind  in  general ;  but  it 
is  bad,  very  bad." 

The  spirit  of  satire  is  a  frequent  source  of  error. 
This  disposes  the  mind  to  see  every  thing  in  an  unfa 
vorable  light ;  to  look  upon  the  world  through  an  un 
even  glass,  which  throws  all  objects  into  grotesque 
attitudes.  A  man  infected  with  this  spirit,  loves  to  see 
the  world  in  its  undress  —  to  paint  mankind  in  their 
hours  of  weakness  or  folly  —  and  perhaps,  not  content 
with  this,  will  even  bestow  upon  dignity  itself  some 
association  which  imparts  to  it  an  air  of  ridicule.  Such 
a  man  is  like  a  French  marquis,  who  invited  a  large 
dinner-party  in  the  time  of  powdered  wigs,  taking  care 

9 


94  SELF-DECEPTION. 

to  place  in  the  receiving-room  a  mirror,  that  gave  an 
oblique  direction  to  every  image  thrown  upon  its  sur 
face.  As  the  several  visiters  came,  they  adjusted  their 
wigs  by  the  glass,  and  of  course,  in  order  to  make  them 
appear  upright,  they  gave  them  a  slanting  position. 
When  they  were  all  seated  at  table,  they  presented  a 
grotesque  appearance,  and  were  a  fair  illustration  of  the 
view  a  satirist  takes  of  his  fellow-men.  His  mind  is  a 
mirror,  the  obliquity  of  which  is  imparted  to  every 
thing  it  reflects.  In  such  cases,  the  ridicule  is  not  in 
mankind,  but  in  the  satirist  who  abuses  his  own  reason, 
for  he  follows  a  standard  of  falsehood,  and  not  of  truth. 
It  is  strange,  but  still  it  is  a  reality,  that  people  who 
value  themselves  for  their  wit  —  who  pretend  to  be  bet 
ter  and  wiser  than  other  men, —  who  assume  the  seat  of 
judgment,  and  pronounce  their  decisions  upon  the 
world,  with  an  air  of  authority,  should  themselves  be 
the  voluntary  dupes  of  their  own  evil  habits  :  that  rea 
son —  a  mirror  of  truth,  as  God  and  nature  gave  it  — 
should  be  bent  and  twisted  by  its  possessor,  till  it  re 
flects  not  things  as  they  are,  but  as  they  are  not,  thus 
becoming  an  instrument  of  delusion  and  error. 

Another  species  of  self-deception  arises  from  an  in 
dulgence  of  the  spirit  of  satire,  till  it  results  in  a  gree 
diness,  an  avidity  of  lashing  —  the  ambition  of  saying 
piquant  and  pungent  things ;  and  which,  at  last,  begets 
an  utter  indifference  to  justice  or  truth.  The  biogra 
pher  of  Byron  tells  us  a  curious  instance  of  this.  In 
the  first  draught  of  the  great  poet's  "  British  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  he  introduced  the  following 
line  — 


SELF-DECEPTION.  95 

"  Topography  I  leave  to  stupid  Gell." 

In  this  state  it  went  to  press ;  but  a  few  evenings 
before  the  proof  was  sent  to  him,  Byron  was  introduced 
to  Sir  W.  Gell,  and  being  treated  by  that  gentleman 
with  some  attention,  he  was  pleased  with  him,  and  when 
the  proof-sheet  came  he  altered  the  epithet  "  stupid  " 
to  "  classic,"  thus  converting  a  contemptuous  and  con 
demnatory  couplet  into  one  of  eulogy  and  commenda 
tion.  Such  is  the  justice  of  a  determined  satirist; 
the  colors  with  which  he  paints  are  not  furnished  by 
the  rainbow  of  truth,  but  by  the  capricious  flickerings 
of  his  own  heart.  He  sees  not  things  as  they  are,  but 
as  they  are  reflected  in  an  uneven  glass. 

Another  source  of  delusion  nearly  allied  to  credulity, 
is  the  love  of  the  marvellous.  This  inclines  the  subject 
of  it  to  believe  what  is  extraordinary  merely  because 
it  is  so.  To  such  a  person,  simple  truth  is  insipid.  It 
is  only  the  high-seasoned  tale  of  the  wild  and  wonder 
ful,  that  pleases  his  palate.  This  disposition  seems 
born  with  some  men,  and  the  effort  to  correct  it  is  re 
luctant  and  painful.  It  is  to  persons  of  this  cast  that 
ghosts  usually  pay  their  addresses  —  and  I  fancy,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  that  the  hero  of  the  Salem  turnpike, 
of  whom  the  legend  tells  us,  was  one  of  these.  As  he 
was  passing  along  in  the  gray  mists  of  the  evening,  a 
solemn  vision  arrested  his  attention.  A  disembodied 
spirit  stood  by  the  road-side,  and  with  awful  and  ma 
jestic  air,  lifted  up  its  arm  as  if  to  warn  the  traveller 
from  proceeding  on  his  journey !  Obedient  to  the  mys 
terious  mandate,  the  traveller  retraced  his  steps  to  Sa- 


96  SELF-DECEPTION. 

lem,  and  told  the  tale.  There  were  persons  present 
who  had  a  fancy  to  see  a  ghost,  and  accordingly  they 
returned  with  the  traveller  to  the  spot  where  the  vision 
had  appeared  to  him.  There  it  stood,  but  on  being  ap 
proached,  it  proved  to  be  an  honest  pump,  with  its  long 
handle  elevated  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  ! 

1  have  heard  another  story  —  which  may  afford  a 
lesson  on  this  subject  —  and  it  is  of  the  more  value, 
that  I  have  reason  to  believe  it  true.  Some  years  ago,  an 
eminent  physician  of  Hartford,  in  Connecticut,  was 
called  to  a  patient  in  the  adjacent  town  of  Berlin.  He 
was  detained  by  his  duties  there  till  past  midnight, 
when  he  set  out  on  horseback,  for  his  return.  It  was 
winter,  and  the  snow,  about  a  foot  deep,  was  incrusted 
with  ice,  so  as  to  bear  a  man  upon  its  surface.  It  was 
one  of  those  clear  frosty  nights,  when  the  "  cold  round 
moon  shines  deeply  down,"  imparting  to  nature  an  as 
pect  of  melancholy  repose,  and  suggesting  the  idea  that 
death  has  stolen  in  and  turned  sleep  to  dissolution. 

The  physician  pushed  his  horse  forward  with  a  rapid 
step,  until,  as  he  was  passing  a  lonely  grave-yard  that  lay  at 
some  distance  from  the  road,  an  object  at  once  attracted 
his  attention,  and  curdled  his  heart  with  a  cold  and 
chilling  sensation.  He  saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw,  the 
form  of  a  female,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  scarcely  less 
white  and  dazzling  than  the  moonlight,  passing  slow 
ly  over  the  space  between  the  road  and  the  grave-yard, 
and  advancing  toward  the  latter.  He  drew  in  his  reins, 
and  gazed  steadily  at  the  object,  for  several  seconds. 
It  seemed  to  be  no  illusion.  He  imagined  that  he 
could  distinctly  see  the  folds  of  drapery,  and  mark  a 


SELF-DECEPTION.  97 

slow  but  gliding  progress  over  the  snow.  But  he  could 
hear  no  sound.  He  listened  intently.  Not  a  whisper 
of  the  breeze  was  heard  —  all  nature  seemed  breath 
less  —  and  even  the  foot-fall  of  the  mysterious  image 
was  noiseless  as  the  tread  of  a  spirit. 

The  physician  was  a  man  of  nerve,  and  an  habitual 
disbeliever  in  ghosts  ;  but  here  seemed  a  refutation  of 
his  creed.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  it  was  no  illusion  of  his  senses.  He 
gazed  around,  and  gathered  up  his  recollections  of  the 
day,  to  determine  whether  he  might  not  be  dreaming. 
He  satisfied  himself  that  it  was  no  illusion,  no  dream. 
There  was  the  mysterious  and  unearthly  figure,  still 
before  him,  and  still  proceeding  with  a  noiseless  and 
gliding  step  toward  the  little  collection  of  white  tombs 
at  the  extremity  of  the  field. 

The  conduct  of  the  physician  was  that  which  became 
a  man  "  I  will  know  the  truth,"  said  he,  "  or  perish 
in  the  attempt."  He  sprang  from  his  horse,  and  en 
tering  the  field,  proceeded  directly  toward  the  object  of 
his  attention.  It  still  continued  to  recede  from  him  — 
but  at  last  he  seemed  to  approach  it.  Having  reached 
the  grave-yard,  it  quietly  seated  itself  upon  a  tomb  by 
the  side  of  a  new-made  grave.  As  the  physician  came 
near,  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon  the  form,  which 
seemed  to  be  that  of  a  female  ;  but  the  face,  which  was 
marked  with  indescribable  sorrow,  was  pallid  and  col 
orless  as  the  stone  upon  which  she  sat. 

The  figure  seemed  not  to  notice  the  physician,  but 
there  was  something  in  the  scene  which  touched  him 
with  indescribable  awe.  He  could  not  resist  the  idea 


93 


SELF-DECEPTION 


that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  disembodied  spirit  — 
but  still  with  a  phrenzied  effort  he  approached  it  —  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder.  The  figure  started  — 
uttered  a  wild  shriek,  and  fell  to  the  earth !  The  phy 
sician  lifted  her  up,  and  found  that  it  was  a  mother  who 
had  walked  forth  in  her  sleep,  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  to 
visit  the  grave  of  her  infant  that  had  died  the  night  be 
fore,  and  for  which  the  fresh  tomb  had  been  prepared. 

The  moral  of  this  anecdote  is  plain  ;  resistance  of  the 
impulses  of  superstition,  resulted  in  explaining  an  ap 
pearance,  that  had  otherwise  passed  into  a  well-authen 
ticated  ghost. 

A  fertile  cause  of  self-delusion  is  found  in  an  indul 
gence  of  the  love  of  mysticism.  This  has  been  one  of 
the  stumbling  blocks  to  truth  in  all  ages.  It  is  confined 
to  no  sect,  to  no  country.  It  may  be  discovered  among 
the  followers  of  Fo  and  Bramah;  among  the  worshippers  of 
the  Grand  Lama  and  the  devotees  of  Mahomet,  and  among 
Christians  of  all  creeds.  It  is  a  spirit  in  man,  which 
ebbs  and  flows  like  the  eternal  tides.  Perhaps  too,  like 
those  very  tides,  which  are  the  result  of  impulses  given 
to  our  earth  by  the  heavenly  bodies,  that  yearning 
after  the  unseen  and  the  spiritual  is  also  a  movement 
deriving  its  origin  from  above.  If  it  be  so,  surely  we 
should  not  abuse  it  to  the  purposes  of  error  and  evil. 

The  readiness  of  certain  persons  to  be  cheated  by 
medicinal  quacks,  may  be  traced  in  part  to  the  love 
of  mysticism.  The  whole  science  of  medicine  is  itself 
peculiarly  occult  and  hidden,  in  one  respect.  We 
can  never  see  the  process  by  which  medicine  chases 
away  disease,  and  restores  health.  Even  to  the  student 


SELF-DECEPTION.  99 

of  medicine,  this  is  a  riddle ;  to  the  credulous,  the  ima 
ginative,  the  ignorant,  there  is  something  in  it  that  par 
takes  of  magic.  They  are  prone,  therefore,  to  believe 
that  the  power  of  healing  is  a  gift,  and  not  an  art  —  that 
it  comes  by  nature,  and  not  by  study.  Thus  they  are 
ever  disposed  to  run  after  ignorant  pretenders  and  im 
pudent  quacks.  So  far  does  this  folly  extend  —  so  far 
does  it  operate  among  us,  even  in  this  enlightened  age, 
and  here  in  the  heart  of  New  England,  that  hundreds  of 
persons  among  us  lose  their  lives  every  year,  by  the  ope 
rations  of  quack  doctors  and  quack  medicines.  The 
extent  to  which  this  is  carried  may  be  imagined  by 
taking  a  single  instance.  A  man  in  Philadelphia  manu 
factures  a  medicine,  to  which  he  gives  the  name  of 
panacea — and  such  is  the  extensive  sale  of  it,  that  he 
has  realized  a  fortune  in  a  few  years.  Yet,  according 
to  the  testimony  of  Dr.  Bigelow,  in  the  trial  of  Mrs. 
Kinney,  a  leading  ingredient  of  this  medicine,  taken  in 
discriminately,  is  arsenic  —  one  of  the  deadliest  of 
poisons.  How  many  a  life  that  hung  upon  a  thread  has 
been  sundered  by  the  arsenic  administered  in  that  pa 
nacea —  that  pretended  cure  of  all  human  diseases! 

Among  the  instances  of  delusion,  arising  from  a 
love  of  mysticism,  is  that  afforded  by  the  Mormons. 
The  history  of  superstition  tells  not  of  a  more  bare 
faced  imposition,  than  this.  Here  are  no  bulrushes  of 
antiquity  in  which  to  hide  the  cradle  of  the  infant  re 
ligion  :  it  is  born  in  our  own  day,  and  bred  up  under 
our  own  eyes.  It  is  a  naked  falsehood,  and  were  it  not 
that  it  appeals  to  man's  love  of  the  mysterious,  could 
not  dupe  any  mind  endued  with  a  ray  of  common  sense. 


100  SELF-DECEPTION. 

Yet  this  hoax  has  become  the  basis  of  a  settled  creed,  — 
the  platform  of  a  sect,  which  is  now  drawing  its  vota 
ries  from  various  parts  of  both  hemispheres,  and  begin 
ning  to  point  its  upward  spires  among  villages  and  cities, 
in  testimony  of  its  prevalence  and  power  ! 

Such  are  some  of  the  vulgar  forms  of  delusion,  pro 
ceeding  from  an  indulgence  of  the  love  of  mysticism  — 
a  hankering  for  mental  excitement,  which  becomes  like 
the  habit  of  physical  intoxication,  a  master  of  the  soul, 
prostrating  and  degrading  the  most  exalted  portion  of 
man's  nature. 

Before  we  notice  another  remarkable  case  of  modern 
mysticism,  it  may  be  well  to  make  a  few  preliminary  ob 
servations.  It  is  now  somewhat  more  than  half  a  cen 
tury,  that  the  great  efforts  of  the  human  mind  throughout 
the  civilized  world  have  been  bestowed,  almost  exclu 
sively,  on  natural  science.  During  this  period,  meta 
physics,  the  philosophy  of  mind,  has  been  treated  with 
comparative  neglect :  matter  has  been  the  chief  sub 
ject  of  investigation.  In  this,  immense  strides  have 
been  made.  The  three  great  kingdoms  of  nature  have 
been  explored,  and  not  content  with  investigating  these, 
as  they  now  exist,  philosophy  has  plunged  into  the  past 
and  revealed  to  us  races  of  animals  and  tribes  of  trees, 
plants,  and  shrubs,  which  existed  before  the  flood,  but 
which  are  now  extinct.  Nay  more  —  the  structure  of 
the  earth  has  been  examined,  the  foundations  thereof 
have  been  scrutinized,  and  the  very  art  of  world-making 
and  world-building  is  now  a  study  in  our  common  schools. 

Thus  the  entire  field  of  nature,  the  kingdom  of  mat 
ter,  has  been  explored,  from  the  growth  of  a^blade  of 


SELF-DECEPTION.  101 

grass,  to  the  mechanism  of  the  celestial  bodies ;  from 
the  grain  of  sand,  to  the  revolving  planet.  So  far  in 
deed  has  the  investigation  of  matter  proceeded,  that  not 
merely  its  chemical  properties,  but  its  more  subtle  prin 
ciples,  have  become  the  theme  of  familiar  observation 
and  study.  Magnetism,  once  so  mysterious,  is  now 
well  understood,  and  mankind,  not  content  with  having 
enslaved  the  three  great  elements  of  air,  fire,  and  water, 
as  the  means  of  locomotion,  have  been  attempting  to 
put  a  yoke  on  magnetism,  and  attach  this  also  to  the 
triumphal  car  of  human  art.  One  of  the  petitioners 
before  the  General  Court  of  Massachusetts,  in  behalf  of 
the  Seekonk  Railroad,  a  few  years  since,  in  addressing 
the  committee,  urged  as  an  argument  in  favor  of  this 
road,  that  it  was  so  constructed  as  to  admit  the  use  of 
electro-magnetic  engines,  —  thus  providing  for  dismis 
sing  the  lazy  and  ineffectual  power  of  steam,  and  hitch 
ing  on  thunder  and  lightning  in  its  place ! 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  element  to  which  we  allude  — 
passing  under  various  names,  and  eluding  pursuit,  like 
some  notorious  felon,  appears  to  be  fairly  caught  at  last. 
A  learned  gentleman  *  of  New  York  has  just  published 
a  book,  in  which  he  asserts  that  electricity  or  mag 
netism  is  the  great  motive  power  throughout  the  uni 
verse  :  the  instrument  by  which  plants  bud  and  blossom, 
and  yield  seed ;  by  which  animals  live,  and  breathe,  and 
have  a  being ;  by  which  the  planets  revolve  in  their  or 
bits.  Even  animal  life,  it  would  seem,  is  no  longer  a 

*  SHERWOOD,  on  the  Motive  Power  of  the  Universe. 


102  .         SELF-DECEPTION?. 

riddle  or  a  mystery  —  it  is  only  one  of  the  pranks  of 
magnetism.  If  this  be  so,  we  may  expect  that  animal 
magnetism  will  soon  be  among  the  exact  sciences. 

In  the  great  march  of  natural  science  to  which  we 
allude,  the  philosophy  of  Bacon,  making  truth  and 
experience  the  starting  point  of  our  reasonings,  has 
been  the  guide  of  the  age,  and  the  results  have  been 
generally  useful  and  practical. 

But  while  such  has  been  the  main  tendency  of  science 
among  the  leading  nations  of  Europe,  there  has  been  a 
school  in  Germany,  whose  disciples  have  been  occu 
pied  with  the  mysteries  of  mind.  As  the  philosophy  of 
Locke  impressed  itself  strongly  upon  the  people  of 
England,  so  that  of  Kant  had  cast  the  mind  of  Germany 
in  its  own  image.  The  general  theory  of  this  great 
metaphysician  is,  that  instead  of  acquiring  our  ideas 
through  the  instrumentality  of  the  senses,  as  Locke 
maintains  —  we  have  many,  such  as  that  of  time,  space, 
unity,  multitude,  substance,  existence,  &c.,  which  are 
the  pure  offspring  of  the  understanding.  Thus  he 
maintains  that  we  have  some  ideas  which  transcend  the 
senses,  and  accordingly  his  philosophy  is  called  tran 
scendental. 

It  is  under  the  pervading  influence  of  Kant,  that 
German  literature  has  been  prosecuted  for  the  last  half 
century,  and  every  thing  capable  of  reflecting  its  hues 
seems  to  be  tinged  with  it.  Even  poetry,  romance,  the 
drama,  —  almost  every  form  in  which  the  spirit  of  the 
age  manifests  itself,  is  occasionally  touched  with  the 
transcendental  mist,  that  the  mighty  magician  has 
evoked  from  the  deeps  of  philosophy. 


SELF-DECEPTION.  103 

This  mist  slowly  but  gradually  crept  over  to  England, 
and  at  last  has  become  visible  even  here.  There  is  now 
a  transcendental  school,  expressly  avowed,  in  this  Yan 
kee  land,  and,  through  a  periodical  devoted  to  its  in 
terests,  seeks  approval  and  propagation  here.  The 
members  of  this  school  set  themselves  forth  as  posses 
sing  "  an  intense  desire  to  pierce  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  universe"  —  to  "  outwatch  the  Bear,  to  unsphere 
the  spirit  of  Plato"  —  to  "  wrestle  with  day-break  to 
obtain  a  benediction  from  the  angel  of  truth." 

They  speak  of  themselves  as  "  a  small  class  of  scholars 
who  value  literature  as  an  instrument  for  the  solution 
of  problems  that  haunt  and  agitate  the  soul.  They  wish 
to  look  into  the  truth  of  things.  The  universe  in  its 
mysterious  and  terrible  grandeur  has  acted  upon  them. 
Life  is  not  regarded  by  them  as  a  pageant  or  a  dream ; 
it  passes  before  their  eye  in  dread  and  solemn  beauty ; 
thought  is  stirred  up  from  its  lowest  depths ;  they  be 
come  students  of  God  unconsciously  ;  and  secret  com 
munion  with  the  divine  presence  is  their  preparation 
for  a  knowledge  of  books,  and  the  expression  of  their 
own  convictions." 

Believing,  as  we  do,  that  a  high  self-estimation  has  a 
conservative  tendency,  we  are  not  disposed  to  censure 
this  somewhat  flattering  self-portraiture.  It  might 
indeed  be  natural  to  ask,  if  these  persons  are  alone  in 
their  "  desire  to  look  into  the  truth  of  things  ? " —  if  the 
"  universe  in  its  mysterious  and  terrible  grandeur"  has 
acted  only  on  them  ?  —  if  they  only,  of  all  the  world, 
"are  students  of  God?"  —  if  "communion  with  the 
divine  presence  "  is  a  new  phenomenon,  and  only  vouch- 


104  SELF-DECEPTION. 

safed  to  these  wrestlers  with  day-break  ?  But  these  ques 
tions  we  do  not  ask,  for  we  will  not  impute  arrogance 
or  egotism  to  those  of  whom  we  are  speaking.  They 
rank  among  their  number  some  of  the  finest  minds  and 
most  elegant  scholars  of  the  day,  and  so  far  as  we  know 
them,  they  are  pure  and  virtuous  members  of  society. 

Could  their  theories  be  confined  to  persons  of  this 
class,  we  should  have  little  fear  of  their  consequences 
upon  the  community.  But  let  us  consider  that,  judging 
the  world  by  themselves,  some  of  these  individuals  be 
lieve  that  all  the  accustomed  restraints  of  religion  and  law 
are  useless,  not  to  say  mischievous,  and  that,  accordingly, 
they  come  before  the  world  denouncing  the  existing  state 
of  things,  and  ask  us  to  join  them  in  a  radical  reform 
of  society.  Some  of  them  go  so  far  as  to  call  upon  us 
to  pull  down  our  churches  —  to  banish  the  priesthood, 
to  annihilate  the  visible  church  in  all  its  forms  —  to 
sweep  away  the  sabbath  with  its  hymns  of  praise,  to 
prostrate  the  barriers  which  protect  life  and  property, 
and  home  and  conscience.  They  ask  us  to  base  gov 
ernment,  not  on  laws  sustained  by  power  —  but  on 
taste  and  feeling.  In  short,  they  call  upon  us  to  hurl 
down  the  present  fabric  of  society,  and  in  disdain  of 
experience,  in  defiance  and  rejection  of  all  that  history 
teaches,  to  take'  their  scheme,  and  crystalize  anew,  ac 
cording  to  their  theory.  Such  is  the  request  of  those 
who  have  wrought  no  miracles,  and  shown  no  sign  in 
attestation  of  their  authority  —  and  so  far  as  plain  minds 
can  judge  of  the  matter,  set  up  no  higher  claim  to  our 
confidence,  than  that  they  have  seen  visions  and  dreamed 
dreams. 


SELF-DECEPTION. 


105 


Is  it  possible  to  produce  a  more  startling  illustration 
of  the  power  of  mysticism  over  the  mind  than  that  persons 
of  cultivated  intellect,  elevated  tastes  and  pure  morals,  and 
withal  brought  up  in  New  England,  —  the  land  of  com 
mon  sense,  —  should  start  a  scheme  for  the  renovation 
of  society,  upon  such  a  basis  of  seeming  visions ;  and 
should  connect  theories  so  beautiful  with  measures  and 
designs  so  baneful !  The  whole  subject  suggests  reflection 
and  caution.  It  tells  us  that  the  refined,  as  well  as  the 
vulgar  mind,  has  a  principle  within,  designed  to  elevate 
the  soul,  but  which  —  divorced  from  experience  and  com 
mon  sense,  and  indulged  in  seeking  to  be  wise  above  what 
is  written  —  may  become  the  source  of  delusion,  and  of 
that  most  hopeless  and  helpless  species  —  self-delusion. 


10 


THE  MONKEYS  IN  PROCESSION. 

A  TRAVELLER  in  Africa  was  one  day  astonished  to 
observe  a  vast  procession  of  monkeys  marching  over 
a  plain,  with  countenances  indicative  of  the  deepest  sor 
row.  There  was  the  little  frisky  green  monkey  —  but 
his  countenance  was  grave  and  wo-begone;  there  was 
the  red  monkey,  and  the  baboon,  and  the  chimpanze, 
and  all  seemed  full  of  grief,  as  if  some  great  calamity 
had  befallen  them.  Instead  of  the  leaps  and  frolics  and 
grimaces  usually  seen  among  this  four-handed  family, 
they  marched  forward  with  long  and  regular  steps,  to 
a  grave  and  solemn  tune,  sung  by  a  choir  of  appointed 
howlers. 

After  marching  a  considerable  distance,  the  vast 
procession,  consisting  of  many  thousands,  approached 
a  low  mound  of  earth.  Here  the  head  of  the  train 
halted,  and  the  rest  came  up  and  arranged  themselves 
around  the  mound.  Then  the  whole  troop  set  up  a 
most  piteous  wail ;  then  some  of  them  began  to  dig 
into  the  mound  of  earth,  and  pretty  soon  they  disclosed 
the  half-decayed  skeleton  of  a  monkey.  This  was 
raised  upon  an  altar,  and  then  all  the  monkeys  bowed 
down  to  the  bones,  and  paid  them  reverence.  Then 
one  of  the  most  noted  of  the  monkeys,  a  famous  lawyer 
among  them,  stood  up  and  made  an  eloquent  address. 
The  monkeys,  apes  and  baboons  sobbed,  and  sighed, 
and  howled,  as  the  orator  proceeded.  At  length  he 
finished  with  a  pathetic  and  sublime  flourish,  and  the 


THE     MONKEYS     IN     PROCESSION.        107 

congregation  shed  tears,  and  wiped  their  eyes,  and  then 
they  laid  the  bones  in  the  ground  again,  and  then  they 
heaped  up  the  earth  over  it  to  a  vast  height ;  and  they 
reared  a  monument  upon  it,  with  an  inscription  setting 
forth  the  virtues  and  services  of  the  dead  monkey,  and 
then  they  all  went  away. 

After  the  multitude  had  dispersed,  the  traveller  went 
to  the  orator,  and  asked  him  what  all  this  meant ; 
whereupon  he  said,  that  it  was  the  custom  with  the 
monkeys,  when  any  one  rose  up  among  them  of  su 
preme  sagacity,  or  superior  excellence,  to  envy  and 
hate  him  —  to  persecute  him  and  put  him  to  death ; 
but  after  many  years  they  always  dug  up  the  decayed 
bones  and  worshipped  them,  to  testify  their  gratitude,  and 
repair  their  injustice,  by  honoring  the  memory  of  the 
monkey  that  they  had  reviled  while  living. 

This  sounded  so  ridiculous  to  the  traveller  that  he 
laughed  outright ;  but  he  was  soon  rebuked  by  the 
monkey,  who  spoke  gravely  as  follows :  "  Your  mirth, 
sir  traveller,  is  ill-timed,  and  shows  a  want  of  due  re 
flection.  We  monkeys  are  great  imitators,  and  in  this 
matter  we  do  but  follow  the  fashion  of  our  betters. 
Some  monkeys  have  travelled  as  well  as  you,  sir,  and 
they  tell  us  that  mankind  usually  revile  those  who  are 
remarkable  for  goodness  or  greatness,  while  they  are 
living,  and  often  bring  them  to  a  premature  grave, 
either  by  persecution  or  neglect ;  but  afterwards,  when 
their  bones  are  decayed,  they  make  up  for  their  folly 
and  injustice,  by  paying  great  honor  to  their  memory, 
digging  up  their  remains,  singing  hymns,  delivering  ora 
tions,  and  erecting  monuments  over  their  ashes ! " 


THE    GREEDY  POX. 

ON  a  winter's  night, 

When  the  moon  shone  bright, 

Two  foxes  went  out  for  prey  ; 
As  they  trotted  along, 
With  frolic  and  song 

Th6y  cheered  their  lonely  way. 

Through  the  wood  they  went, 
But  they  could  not  scent 

A  rabbit  or  goose,  astray ; 
But  at  length  they  came 
To  some  better  game, 

In  a  farmer's  barn  —  by  the  way. 

On  a  roost  there  sat 
Some  chickens  as  fat 

As  foxes  could  wish  for  their  dinners ; 
So  the  prowlers  found 
A  hole  by  the  ground, 

And  they  both  went  in,  the  sinners ! 

They  both  went  in 

With  a  squeeze  and  a  grin, 

And  the  chickens  were  quickly  killed  ; 
And  one  of  them  lunched, 
And  feasted  and  munched, 

Till  his  stomach  was  fairly  filled. 


THE     GREEDY     FOX. 


109 


The  other,  more  wise, 
Looked  about  with  both  eyes, 

And  hardly  would  eat  at  all ; 
For  as  he  came  in, 
With  a  squeeze  and  a  grin, 

He  remarked  that  the  hole  was  small. 

And  the  cunning  elf 
He  said  to  himself, 

"  If  I  eat  too  much,  't  is  plain, 
As  the  hole  is  small, 
I  shall  stick  in  the  wall, 

And  never  get  out  again." 

Thus  matters  went  on, 
Till  the  night  was  gone, 

And  the  farmer  came  out  with  a  pole ; 
Then  the  foxes  flew, 
And  one  went  through, 

But  the  greedy  one  stuck  in  the  hole ! 


V~ 


10* 


THE   TWO   SHADES. 

ALONG  that  gloomy  river's  brim, 
Where  Charon  plies  the  ceaseless  oar, 

Two  mighty  Shadows,  dusk  and  dim, 
Stood  lingering  on  the  dismal  shore. 

Hoarse  came  the  rugged  Boatman's  call, 
While  echoing  caves  enforced  the  cry  — 

And  as  they  severed  life's  last  thrall, 
Each  Spirit  spoke  one  parting  sigh. 

11  Farewell  to  earth !     I  leave  a  name, 
Written  in  fire,  on  field  and  flood  — 

Wide  as  the  wind,  the  voice  of  fame, 
Hath  borne  my  fearful  tale  of  blood. 

And  though  across  this  leaden  wave, 
Returnless  now  my  spirit  haste, 

Napoleon's  name  shall  know  no  grave, 
His  mighty  deeds  be  ne'er  erased. 

The  rocky  Alp,  where  once  was  set 
My  courser's  hoof,  shall  keep  the  seal, 

And  ne'er  the  echo  there  forget 
The  clangor  of  my  glorious  steel. 

Marengo's  hill-sides  flow  with  wine  — 
And  summer  there  the  olive  weaves, 

But  busy  memory  e'er  will  twine 


THE     TWO    SHADES.  Ill 

The  blood-stained  laurel  with  its  leaves. 

The  Danube's  rushing  billows  haste 
With  the  black  ocean  wave  to  hide  — 

Yet  is  my  startling  story  traced, 
In  every  murmur  of  its  tide. 

The  pyramid  on  Giseh's  plain, 
Its  founder's  fame  hath  long  forgot  — 

But  from  its  memory,  Time,  in  vain 
Shall  strive  Napoleon's  name  to  blot. 

The  bannered  storm  that  flouts  the  sky, 
With  God's  red  quiver  in  its  fold, 

O'er  startled  realms  shall  louring  fly, 
A  type  of  me,  till  time  is  told. 

The  storm,  a  thing  of  weal  and  woe, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  peace  and  power  — 

That  lays  the  giant  forest  low, 
Yet  cheers  the  bent  grass  with  its  shower  — 

That,  in  its  trampled  pathway  leaves, 
The  uptorn  roots  to  bud  anew, 

And  where  the  past  o'er  ruin  grieves, 
Bids  fresher  beauty  spring  to  view :  — 

The  storm  —  an  emblem  of  my  name,  — 
Shall  keep  my  memory  in  the  skies  — 

Its  flash-wreathed  wing,  a  flag  of  flame, 
Shall  spread  my  glory  as  it  flies." 

The  Spirit  passed,  and  now  alone, 
The  darker  Shadow  trod  the  shore  — 

Deep  from  his  breast  the  parting  tone 
Swept  with  the  wind,  the  landscape  o'er. 


112  THE    TWO     SHADES. 

"  Farewell !     I  will  not  speak  of  deeds, — 
For  these  are  written  but  in  sand — 

And,  as  the  furrow  choked  with  weeds, 
Fade  from  the  memory  of  the  land. 

The  war-plumed  chieftian  cannot  stay, 
To  guard  the  gore  his  blade  hath  shed  — 

Time  sweeps  the  purple  stain  away, 
And  throws  a  veil  o'er  glory's  bed. 

But  though  my  form  must  fade  from  view, 
And  Byron  bow  to  fate  resigned, — 

Undying  as  the  fabled  Jew, 
Harold's  dark  spirit  stays  behind  ! 

And  he  who  yet,  in  after  years, 
Shall  tread  the  vine-clad  shores  of  Rhine, 

In  Chillon's  gloom  shall  pour  his  tears, 
Or  raptured,  see  blue  Leman  shine  — 

He  shall  not  —  cannot,  go  alone  — 
Harold  unseen  shall  seek  his  side : 

Shall  whisper  in  his  ear  a  tone, 
So  seeming  sweet,  he  cannot  chide. 

He  cannot  chide;  although  he  feel, 
While  listening  to  the  magic  verse, 

A  serpent  round  his  bosom  steal, 
He  still  shall  hug  the  coiling  curse. 

Or  if  beneath  Italian  skies, 
The  wanderer's  feet  delighted  glide, 

Harold,  in  merry  Juan's  guise, 
Shall  be  his  tutor  and  his  guide. 

One  living  essence  God  hath  poured 
In  every  heart  —  the  love  of  sway  — 


THE     TWO    SHADES.  113 

And  though  he  may  not  wield  the  sword, 
Each  is  a  despot  in  his  way. 

The  infant  rules  by  cries  and  tears  — 
The  maiden,  with  her  sunny  eyes  — 

The  miser,  with  the  hoard  of  years  — 
The  monarch,  with  his  clanking  ties. 

To  me  the  will  —  the  power,  were  given, 
O'er  plaything  man  to  weave  my  spell, 

And  if  I  bore  him  up  to  heaven, 
'T  was  but  to  hurl  him  down  to  hell. 

And  if  I  chose  upon  the  rack 
Of  doubt  to  stretch  the  tortured  mind, 

To  turn  Faith's  heavenward  footstep  back, 
Her  hope  despoiled  —  her  vision,  blind  — 

Or  if  on  Virtue's  holy  brow, 
A  wreath  of  scorn  I  sought  to  twine  — 

And  bade  her  minions  mocking  bow, 
With  sweeter  vows  at  pleasure's  shrine  — 

Or  if  I  mirrored  to  the  thought, 
With  glorious  truth  the  charms  of  earth, 

While  yet  the  trusting  fool  I  taught, 
To  scoff  at  Him  who  gave  it  birth  — 

Or  if  I  filled  the  soul  with  light, 
And  bore  its  buoyant  wing  in  air  — 

To  plunge  it  down  in  deeper  night, 
And  mock  its  maniac  wanderings  there  — 

I  did  but  wield  the  wand  of  power, 
That  God  intrusted  to  my  clasp, 

And  not,  the  tyrant  of  an  hour  — 
Will  I  resign  it  to  Death's  grasp ! 

The  despot  with  his  iron  chain, 


114  THE     TWO    SHADES. 

In  idle  bonds  the  limbs  may  bind  — 
He  who  would  hold  a  sterner  reign, 

Must  twine  the  links  around  the  mind. 
Thus  I  have  thrown  upon  my  race, 

A  chain  that  ages  cannot  rend  — 
And  mocking  Harold  stays  to  trace, 

The  slaves  that  to  my  sceptre  bend," 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE: 

A  SKETCH  FROM  A  TRAVELLER'S  MEMORANDUM  BOOK. 

THE  night  had  covered  the  earth  with  a  thin  robe  of 
snow.  As  the  morning  dawned,  we  saw  a  deer  strain 
ing  across  the  prairie,  as  if  urged  by  some  imminent 
peril.  He  went  at  full  bounds,  and  looked  not  behind. 
For  a  long  time  we  watched  his  progress ;  and  though 
he  flew  onward  with  great  rapidity,  such  was  the  vast 
level  over  which  he  passed,  that  after  a  while  he  seemed 
rather  to  creep  than  run.  By  degrees  he  dwindled  in 
size,  till  he  appeared  but  a  speck.  At  length  he 
reached  the  hills,  which  lay  like  a  flight  of  steps  at  the 
foot  of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  and  as  he  ascended  them, 
he  seemed  an  insect  crawling  over  a  sheet  of  white 
paper. 

Scarcely  was  he  lost  to  view,  when  a  pack  of  eight 
wolves  of  the  prairie  were  seen  on  his  track,  speeding 
forward  with  that  eagerness  which  characterizes  the 
race.  Two  were  in  advance  of  the  rest,  with  their 
noses  near  the  ground ;  yet  proceeding  with  a  direct 
ness,  expressive  at  once  of  assurance  and  determination. 
The  rest  followed,  as  if  they  placed  implicit  reliance 
upon  their  leaders.  On  they  went;  and  long  before 


116  HUNTERS     OF     THE     PRAIRIE. 

they  reached  the  mountains,  they  were  lost  to  our 
view. 

It  was  a  scene  that  suggested  a  long  train  of  musings. 
One  might  have  fancied  that  peace  would  hold  her  reign 
over  the  solitude,  as  yet  disturbed  by  no  intrusive  foot 
steps  of  man.  Far  away  was  the  ocean ;  far  away  the 
busy  marts  along  its  border,  whose  bosoms,  like  the 
fretted  sea,  are  agitated  with  the  surges  of  contending 
billows.  Before  us  was  the  spotless  prairie,  un 
touched  and  unsullied,  with  a  mantle  thrown  over  it 
from  heaven.  Yet  here  were  things  to  remind  us  of 
scenes  which  are  witnessed  in  human  society.  There 
was  indeed  no  buying  and  selling ;  yet  that  poor  animal 
fled  like  a  creditor,  arid  those  blood-hounds  of  the  forest 
pursued  like  sheriffs.  There  was  here  no  distinction  of 
sects,  no  diversity  of  creeds ;  yet  that  pacific  deer  might 
seem  a  quaker  of  the  forest,  carrying  his  non-combative 
doctrines  to  the  utmost  extent.  Poor  fellow  !  both  he, 
and  William  Penn,  found  that  a  peaceful  life  is  not  a 
sure  protection  against  the  malice  of  the  world. 

Fancies  like  these  crossed  my  mind,  till  other  scenes 
suggested  other  thoughts,  and  the  deer  and  the  wolves 
were  forgotten.  As  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
mountains,  however,  my  attention  was  suddenly  attracted 
by  the  whistling  of  the  deer,  and  the  sharp  cry  of  the 
wolves  now  close  upon  him.  He  had  re-crossed  the 
prairie,  and  sought  for  shelter  in  a  little  rocky  mound, 
situated  in  the  midst  of  the  plain.  In  vain  his  endeavors 
to  escape,  for  during  the  whole  day  his  unwearied  pur 
suers  had  maintained  the  chase.  He  was  now  worn 
and  weary ;  and  the  sight  of  the  wolves  at  his  heels, 


HUNTERS     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 


117 


with  teeth  laid  bare,  and  eyes  staring  upon  their  prey, 
was  sufficient  only  to  produce  a  staggering  gait,  between 
a  walk  and  a  bound.  Having  left  his  cover  and  crossed 
a  little  brook,  he  faltered  as  he  ascended  the  bank,  and 
one  of  the  wolves  springing  upon  him,  fixed  his  fangs 
fatally  in  the  back  of  his  neck. 


11 


THE  BLUE-BIRD. 

HARK  !  on  the  air  some  music  floats 

By,  with  a  breezy  wing ; 
See !  5t  is  the  blue-bird's  welcome  notes, 

Coming  to  tell  of  spring. 

There  on  the  topmost  bough  above, 

He  sits  by  his  gentle  mate ! 
With  trembling  wings  and  a  voice  of  love, 

He  fondly  seems  to  prate. 

Welcome,  sweet  bird,  with  thy  wing  of  blue, 
And  thy  round  and  ruddy  breast ! 

Thou  hast  come  again  these  fields  to  view, 
And  choose  thyself  a  nest. 

'T  is  many  a  day,  my  pretty  cheat, 

Since  thou  didst  quit  the  trees, 
And  leave  us  here  mid  storm  and  sleet, 

To  shiver  or  to  freeze ! 

While  we  with  winter  clouds  of  black 
Were  wading  through  the  snow, 

Our  fingers  pinched  by  frosty  Jack, 
And  all  our  spirits  low ; 

Thou,  thou  wast  in  some  southern  clime, 
Where  flowers  are  ever  found, 


THE    BLUE-BIRD.  119 

Singing  thy  song,  in  mellow  chime, 
With  other  birds  around. 

And  didst  thou,  in  those  happy  hours, 

Sing  of  thy  native  land ; 
And  of  the  orchard  filled  with  flowers, 

Where  thy  birth-tree  did  stand  ? 

I  know  thou  didst ;  for  home  is  blest, 

When  we  are  far  away ; 
And  thou  hast  come  with  a  beating  breast, 

Back  to  thy  native  spray. 

There  thou  dost  sit,  and  seem  to  sing 

About  thy  youthful  days ; 
And  thy  soft  mate,  with  fluttering  wing, 

Approves  thy  mellow  lays. 

And  thou  art  innocent  and  blest, 

And  I  forgive  thy  wrong, 
That  thou  didst  leave  us,  when  oppressed 

And  sad,  all  winter  long. 

I  do  forgive  thee ;  for  thy  wing, 

On  the  first  southern  breeze, 
Comes  whistling  back,  and  notes  of  spring 

Thou  bringest  to  the  trees. 


THE  LAMP. 

A  YOUTH  was  once  walking  along  in  the  obscure 
passages  of  an  ancient  building.  The  place  was  rough 
and  dark,  and  in  some  parts  he  coul  hardly  discern 
the  objects  around  him.  Several  times  he  ran  against 
the  stone  pillars  or  projections  that  came  in  his  way, 
and  severely  wounded  his  flesh.  In  one  instance,  he 
was  plunged  headlong  down  a  flight  of  steps,  and  at 
last  he  fell  into  a  pit.  From  this  he  extricated  himself 
with  much  difficulty,  and  he  was  so  disheartened  that 
he  burst  into  tears. 

While  he  stood  weeping  in  the  dark  passage,  a  door 
opened  in  the  floor,  through  which  a  flood  of  light  burst 
forth,  and  immediately  a  lovely  female  was  before  him. 
She  had  a  winning  smile  upon  her  face,  and  asked  in 
gentle  tones  what  he  desired  ? 

"Give  me  a  lamp — pray  give  me  a  lamp!"  said 
the  boy,  "  to  guide  me  through  this  labyrinth ! "  No 
sooner  was  the  request  made,  than  it  was  granted ;  a 
lamp  was  in  the  boy's  hand,  and  the  fairy  image  disap 
peared. 

The  youth  now  tripped  gaily  forward,  but  pretty  soon 
he  ran  so  fast  that  the  light  of  the  lamp  was  nearly  ex 
tinguished,  and  several  times  he  suffered  the  same  in 
juries  he  had  done  before  he  received  it;  At  last,  he 
proceeded  so  rapidly,  in  his  impatience  to  get  forward, 


THE      L AMP  . 


121 


that  the  lamp  went  out,  and  left  him  to  grope  his  way 
in  total  darkness. 

There  is  a  meaning  in  this  fable,  if  we  desire  to  find 
it;  the  lamp  may  be  likened  to  reason,  which  God 
has  given  as  our  guide  in  life.  This  is  the  light  to 
show  us  the  dangers  and  evils  that  beset  our  path.  If 
we  bear  it  steadily,  it  will  continue  bright,  and  serve 
us  effectually  ;  but  if  we  become  impatient,  if  we  allow 
our  passions  to  hurry  us  onward,  the  light  of  the  lamp 
will  grow  dim,  and  in  some  moment  of  excess  it  will 
go  out,  leaving  us  in  obscurity  or  total  darkness.  How 
often  does  it  happen  that  the  passions  of  men  complete 
ly  blind  them  ;  how  often  is  the  lamp  of  reason  blown 
out  in  the  haste  and  violence  of  our  wishes,  our  preju 
dices,  or  our  resentment ! 


11* 


THE   SAGE  AND   LINNET. 

A  WISE  old  man,  one  summer's  day, 
Was  walking  in  a  lonely  wood, 

And  there,  upon  a  leafless  spray, 
A  linnet  sang  in  solitude. 

The  old  man  spoke  :  "  Come,  pretty  thing, 
Pray  tell  me  why  you  nestle  here  ? 

And  why  so  cheerly  do  you  sing, 
When  all  around  is  dark  and  drear  1 

"  Why  spurn  the  meadow  and  the  field, 

Where  blushing  flowers  invite  thy  stay, 
And  many  a  raptured  bird  would  yield 
Its  willing  praises  to  thy  lay?" 

The  linnet  answered :  "  Hath  a  sage 
Come  here  to  learn  of  me  the  truth  1 

And  must  I  tell  to  hoary  age 
A  lesson  fit  for  blooming  youth  ? 

"  Of  all  the  gifts  that  Heaven  doth  mete 

In  mercy  to  its  creatures  dear, 
There  's  none  to  me  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
As  peace;  and,  Sage,  I  find  it  here ! 


THE     SAGE     AND     LINNET.  123 

"  Mid  garnished  fields,  and  meadows  gay, 
There 's  many  a  falcon,  many  a  snare  ; 
I  shun  them  all ;  and,  far  away, 
Poor,  yet  content,  my  lot  I  share. 

"  The  listening  of  my  gentle  mate 

Repays  me  for  my  happiest  song, 
And  oft,  from  dawn  to  evening  late, 
I  sing,  nor  find  the  hours  too  long. 

"  Yon  rippling  stream  my  cup  supplies; 

The  wild  flowers  yield  for  me  their  seed ; 
This  bowering  fir,  from  winter  skies, 
Is  all  the  shelter  that  I  need. 

"  Then  do  not  scorn  my  humble  lot, 

Nor  deem  that  wealth  alone  is  bliss: 
For  peace  within  the  humblest  cot, 
With  calm  content,  is  happiness." 


TO  A  WILD  VIOLET,  IN  MARCH. 

MY  pretty  flower,  how  cam'st  thou  here1? 
Around  thee  all  is  sad  and  sere,  — 
The  brown  leaves  tell  of  winter's  breath, 
And  all  but  thou  of  doom  and  death. 

The  naked  forest  shivering  sighs,  — 
On  yonder  hill  the  snow-wreath  lies, 
And  all  is  bleak ;  then  say,  sweet  flower, 
Whence  cam'st  thou  here  in  such  an  hour  1 

No  tree  unfolds  its  timid  bud, 

Chill  pours  the  hill-side's  lurid  flood, 

The  tuneless  forest  all  is  dumb  ; 

Whence  then,  fair  violet,  didst  thou  come  ? 

Spring  hath  not  scattered  yet  her  flowers, 
But  lingers  still  in  southern  bowers ; 
No  gardener's  art  hath  cherished  thee,  — 
For  wild  and  lone  thou  springest  free. 

Thou  springest  here  to  man  unknown, 

Waked  into  life  by  God  alone ! 

Sweet  flower !  thou  tellest  well  thy  birth,  — 

Thou  cam'st  from  Heaven,  though  soiled  in  earth. 


THE  WOUNDED   ROBIN. 

WHY,  pretty  robin,  why  so  late 

Prolong  thy  lingering  stay  1 
Why,  with  thy  little  whistling  mate, 
Art  thou  not  far  away  ?  — 

Away  beneath  some  sunny  sky, 
Where  winter  ne'er  is  known  ; 
Where  flowers,  that  never  seem  to  die, 
Down  sloping  hills  are  strown  ? 

Thou  shiverest  in  the  bitter  gale, 

And  hast  a  piteous  air ; 
And  thy  low  plaint  doth  seem  a  tale 

Of  sorrow  and  despair. 

Say,  is  thy  frame  with  hunger  shaken, 

Or  hast  thou  lost  thy  way? 
Or  art  thou  sick,  and  here  forsaken, 
Desponding  dost  thou  stay  ? 

Alas,  I  see  thy  little  wing 

Is  broken,  and  thou  can'st  not  fly ; 
And  here,  poor,  trembling,  helpless  thing, 
Thou  waitest  but  to  die ! 


126  THE   WOUNDED    ROBIN. 

Nay,  little  flutterer,  do  not  fear, 

I  '11  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
I  '11  bear  thee  home,  thy  heart  I  '11  cheer, 
And  thou  shalt  be  at  rest. 

And  oh,  when  sorrow  through  my  heart 

With  bitterness  is  sent, 
May  some  kind  friend  relieve  the  smart, 

And  give  me  back  content. 

And  in  that  sad  and  gloomy  hour, 

When  the  spirit's  wing  is  broken, 
And  disappointment's  wintry  shower 
Hath  left  no  verdant  token, 

To  bloom  with  budding  hopes  of  spring,  - 
Then  may  some  angel  come, 

And  bear  me  on  a  heavenward  wing 
To  a  sweet  and  peaceful  home. 


THE  ANGEL'S  PRIVILEGE. 


"  It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  than  for  a  rich  man  to 
enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

THERE  was  once  an  Angel  to  whom  was  given  the 
privilege  of  coming  down  to  earth,  and  bearing  up  a 
soul  to  Heaven.  As  he  was  passing  over  the  world, 
he  saw  a  fine  house,  and  in  looking  into  it,  he  discov 
ered  the  proprietor.  He  was  of  a  noble  aspect,  so  the 
angel  took  him  in  his  arms,  and  began  to  ascend  with 
him  to  the  skies.  But  it  so  chanced,  that  the  man's 
heart  was  tied  to  his  wealth  by  a  great  multitude  of 
strong  but  invisible  threads,  and  accordingly,  his  silver, 
and  gold,  and  merchandise,  clung  to  him,  rendering  it 
extremely  difficult  for  the  angel  to  lift  him  toward  the 
skies.  Nor  was  this  all.  The  devil  seeing  what  was 
going  forward,  hung  on  to  the  money  and  merchandise, 
and  made  such  a  ferocious  jerking  and  twitching,  that 
the  rich  man,  with  his  silver  and  gold,  was  wrested  from 
the  angel's  grasp,  and  fell  down  to  the  earth  with  a  se 
vere  concussion. 

The  angel,  leaving  the  sable  fiend  to  congratulate  the 
man  on  his  escape,  proceeded  in  his  search  for  one  that 
was  worthy  of  being  translated  to  the  world  of  bliss.  As 
he  passed  on,  he  noticed  a  poor  but  humble  laborer  in 
a  field.  He  put  his  arms  around  him,  and  lifted  him 


128 


THE     ANGEL     S     PRIVILEGE 


toward  the  skies.  He  was  not  pulled  down  to  the  earth 
by  silver  or  gold,  for  he  had  none ;  nor  did  the  fiend 
seem  to  consider  him  of  sufficient  consequence  to  make 
a  pother  about;  so  being  free  from  drawbacks  and 
incumbrances,  the  poor  man's  spirit  rose  lightly  on 
the  angel's  wings,  and  was  soon  admitted  within  the 
sapphire  gates  of  Paradise. 


CHATSWORTH,   TEN  YEARS  AGO 


FROM  A  TRAVELLER  S  MEMORANDA, 

AFTER  leaving  Haddon  castle,  we  proceeded  toward 
Chatsworth.  A  considerable  part  of  our  road  lay 
through  the  park  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  the  extent 
of  whose  estate,  here,  is  immense.  The  hills  and  slopes 
in  every  direction  seemed  spotted  with  herds  of  deer, 
which  were  nearly  as  gentle  as  sheep ;  they  continued 
by  the  path,  as  we  passed  at  a  little  distance,  the  only 
notice  they  seemed  to  take  of  us  being  that  the  fawns 
gathered  a  little  closer  to  the  sides  of  their  mothers. 
Most  of  these  animals  were  white  beneath,  and  very 
light  red  above,  with  longitudinal  rows  of  white  spots 
along  the  sides  and  back.  Many  were  nearly  and  some 
quite  white,  and  others  were  almost  black. 

At  the  small  village  of  Chatsworth  we  ordered  fresh 
horses,  and  walked  forward  to  the  castle.  As  we  ap 
proached  it,  the  Duke  passed  at  a  little  distance,  on 
horseback,  with  a  mounted  servant  following  behind  at 
the  distance  of  some  fifty  yards.  He  is  forty-two  years 
of  age,  and  is  still  a  bachelor.  The  reason  for  his  re 
maining  unmarried  is  said  to  be,  that  he  is  not  the  legit 
imate  heir  to  the  estate,  the  title  and  possession  of 
which  he  enjoys ;  being  only  permitted  by  Lord  Caven- 

12 


130   CHATS  WORTH,  TEN  YEARS  AGO. 

dish,  the  lawful  heritor,  to  retain  them  during  his  life 
time,  on  condition  that  he  shall  not  marry.  For  the 
truth  of  this  intimation,  however,  I  cannot  vouch.  He 
is  one  of  the  lords  of  the  bed-chamber,  and  seems  to 
be  treated  as  if  there  were  no  imperfection  in  his  claims 
to  rank  and  fortune. 

The  edifice  of  Chatsworth  is  rather  a  palace  than  a 
castle ;  and  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  country  seats 
in  England.  It  is  situated  upon  the  eastern  border  of  a 
narrow  valley,  through  which  the  Derwent  flows  at  no 
great  distance.  This  valley,  with  the  sloping  hills  which 
form  its  boundary,  constitutes  a  part  of  the  manor,  and 
presents  a  beautiful  picture  of  green  lawns,  waving 
woods,  and  sparkling  waters. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  do  more  than  note  some  of  the 
wonders  of  this  gorgeous  villa.  It  is  surrounded  by 
cascades  and  fountains,  which  seem  to  send  forth  liquid 
silver ;  and  rectangular  lakes,  which  appear  like  glowing 
mirrors  set  in  the  earth,  with  frames  formed  of  flowering 
plants  and  shrubs.  There  are  long  vistas  of  green  trees, 
deep  solitary  woods,  shady  bowers  and  rosy  arbors,  and 
all  that  can  gratify  each  range  of  humor,  from  gayety  of 
heart  to  moody  melancholy. 

The  interior  of  the  palace  is  a  wilderness  of  marble 
stair-cases,  boudoirs,  saloons,  cabinets,  dormitories, 
galleries,  &c.  In  the  hall  are  some  fine  statues,  among 
which  is  a  Venus  de  Medici,  by  Canova.  In  several  of 
the  apartments,  there  are  statues  and  pictures,  includ 
ing  a  fine  head  by  Thorwalsden  and  the  original  Hebe 
of  Canova.  Some  of  the  rooms  are  richly  decorated  by 
carvings  in  wood  by  the  celebrated  Gibbons.  Many 


CHATSWORTH,     TEN     YEARS     AGO.        131 

of  these,  representing  birds  and  other  game,  are  wonderful 
specimens  of  art.  But  the  most  interesting  object  is  the 
library,  which  fills  a  room  ninety  feet  in  length.  This 
is  fitted  up  in  a  style  of  great  magnificence.  The  fur 
niture,  the  chairs,  sofas,  and  tables,  are  luxurious  to  the 
last  degree,  and  the  white  marble  fireplace,  carved  in 
Italy,  is  worthy  of  a  Venitian  palace.  In  the  centre  of 
the  room  is  a  window  of  about  twelve  feet  in  height,  con 
sisting  of  a  single  plate  of  glass.  The  view  from  this 
window  is  enchanting.  The  books  in  the  library  are 
not  only  very  numerous,  but  they  embrace  the  best  and 
most  costly  editions  of  works  in  all  languages.  The  Duke 
is  now  spending  a  great  part  of  his  time  in  arranging  this 
library. 

We  had  not  time  to  bestow  a  minute  examination 
upon  this  seat  of  luxury.  Indeed,  a  large  portion  of  it, 
consisting  of  recent  additions  by  the  present  proprietor, 
and  said  to  have  cost  a  million  sterling,  is  yet  in  an  un 
finished  state. 

We  found  our  post-chaise  at  the  gate,  and  having 
paid  the  well-dressed  old  dame  who  showed  us  over  the 
place,  we  departed.  As  we  proceeded  on  the  road  towards 
Sheffield,  we  had  leisure  to  reflect  upon  this  land  of 
lords  and  beggars.  Here  is  the  Duke  of  Devonshire, 
with  an  annual  income  of  three  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  or  more,  and  nothing  can  exceed  the  magni 
ficence  and  luxury  of  his  establishment.  But  what  is 
the  offset  to  all  this  splendor  ?  At  least  some  thousands 
of  peasants  and  paupers,  who  were  born  in  poverty  and 
bred  in  poverty,  and  who  have  no  other  hope  for  them 
selves  or  heritage  for  their  children,  than  that  which 


132        CHATSWORTH,     TEN     YEARS     AGO. 

they  received  of  their  fathers,  —  to  slave  the  body  for 
the  wants  of  the  body  —  throughout  an  existence  that  is 
as  much  a  curse  as  a  blessing.  Such  is  the  prodigious 
cost  of  a  titled  aristocracy  !  Some  thousand  of  persons 
must  live  in  ignorance  and  degradation,  from  genera 
tion  to  generation,  and  the  compensation  offered  to  the 
community  is  a  duke  and  a  palace !  Such  views,  —  and 
are  they  not  just  ones?  —  may  well  content  an  American 
with  the  uniformity  of  society,  in  his  own  country, 
where  there  are  no  lords  and  no  beggars.  It  is  easy  to 
bear  the  gibes  of  the  Trollopes,  and  Halls,  and  Marti- 
neaus,  excited  by  our  happy  distribution  of  wealth  — 
when  we  perceive  the  advantages  of  our  equality,  over 
the  monstrous  disproportion  in  the  conditions  of  different 
ranks  in  England. 

But  let  us  take  a  farther  view  of  the  case.  Suppose 
we  introduce  the  English  system  into  America,  and  see 
whether  the  change  will  be  an  improvement.  Let  us, 
for  instance,  turn  our  attention  to  such  a  place  as  Wor 
cester  in  Massachusetts.  This  town  contains  perhaps 
seven  thousand  inhabitants.  The  lands  around  belong  to 
some  hundreds  of  farmers,  merchants  and  mechanics.  The 
houses  are  generally  the  property  of  the  persons  who 
occupy  them ;  the  shoemaker,  the  carpenter,  the  cabinet 
maker,  is  usually  the  proprietor  of  a  dwelling,  and  he  has 
his  garden  and  his  cow,  and  often  he  possesses  sufficient 
land  for  pasture.  Such  then  is  the  situation  of  the  people 
in  a  place  like  Worcester.  Almost  every  individual  has 
some  property  which  not  only  secures  him  against  the  fear 
and  the  danger  of  want,  but  gives  him  a  certain  station 
and  respectability  in  society.  He  therefore  comes  up 


CHATS  WORTH,  TEN  YEARS  AGO.    133 

to  the  full  measure  of  a  man :  a  being  who  thinks  and 
acts,  not  as  a  slave,  not  as  a  dependent  —  not  as  a  tool  or 
subject  —  but  as  a  freeman ;  one  who  is  alike  conscious 
of  his  rights  and  his  responsibilities.  Society  thus  con 
stituted  becomes  a  fabric  of  great  strength.  It  is  like 
a  ship,  every  timber  of  which  is  sound :  nor  is  this  all. 
As  most  individuals  have  acquired  what  they  possess  by 
their  own  exertions,  the  generation  that  is  coming  for 
ward  is  stimulated  by  the  examples  of  success  before 
them,  and  putting  forth  their  best  efforts,  have  their 
faculties  called  into  full  and  hopeful  exercise,  and  are 
thus  placed  in  that  condition,  which  of  all  others,  is 
most  likely  to  insure  individual  happiness  and  public 
prosperity. 

Now  what  we  propose  is,  in  supposition,  to  destroy 
this  equality,  this  general  distribution  of  wealth,  and  in 
imagination  convert  this  American  town  into  an  English 
one.  The  process  is  obvious.  All  the  lands  for  several 
miles  around  must  be  taken  from  the  numerous  farmers, 
whose  white  houses  are  scattered  over  the  hills  and  val 
leys.  These  houses  must  be  erased  from  the  landscape, 
and  the  thatched  hovels  of  peasants  must  take  their 
place.  The  farmers  themselves,  with  the  exception  of 
some  dozen  or  twenty,  must  descend  from  their  station 
in  society,  and  become  ignorant  drudges  who  work  for 
a  shilling  a  day.  Their  wives  and  daughters  must  sink 
into  vulgar  companionship  with  these  drudges,  and  learn 
to  carry  burdens,  to  do  the  work  of  men,  and  labor  with 
men  in  the  field.  The  herds  and  flocks  which  are  now 
collected  into  a  hundred  folds,  and  contribute  to  the  inde 
pendence  and  happiness  of  hundreds  of  families ;  these 

12* 


134        CHATSWORTH,     TEN     YEARS     AGO. 

with  the  lands  must  change  masters ;  they  must  all  be 
come  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Worcester.  Besides, 
a  large  portion  of  the  houses  in  the  town  must  become 
his  also ;  the  shoemaker  must  give  up  the  proprietorship 
of  his  dwelling,  his  garden,  and  his  little  pasture-ground, 
and  he  must  become  a  tenant  and  vassal  of  His  Grace. 
Many  of  the  mechanics,  and  merchants,  and  professional 
men,  must  do  the  same. 

With  the  wealth  accruing  from  this  vast  rental,  we 
must  build  a  magnificent  edifice  on  some  commanding 
eminence,  and  call  it  Worcester  Castle.  We  must  fill 
it  with  pictures,  and  statues,  and  carvings,  and  every 
other  article  of  luxury  and  taste.  Before  it,  we  must 
spread  a  green  lawn,  and  in  this,  carve  out  lakes,  and 
set  cascades ;  behind  it,  we  must  rear  a  noble  forest  of 
hoary  oaks,  and  call  it  a  park.  We  must  build  marble 
stables  and  fill  them  with  well-trained  horses,  and  these 
must  be  pampered  with  every  luxury,  even  though  the 
peasant  starve.  The  Duke's  horses  and  hounds  must  be 
first  cared  for ;  the  peasant  is  secondary.  We  must  con 
struct  carriages  of  many  forms,  and  assemble  a  retinue 
of  servants  arrayed  in  a  livery  of  green  and  gold. 

We  must  now  create  a  Duke ;  and  what  shall  he  be  ? 
If  we  take  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  for  a  model,  we 
shall  obtain  one  who  is  supposed  not  to  be  the  son  of 
his  reputed  father,  and  who  as  a  private  citizen  would 
hardly  be  esteemed  a  decent  member  of  society.  If  we 
take  other  examples,  shall  we  do  better  ?  Shall  we  get 
a  man  who  is  distinguished  for  his  virtues,  patriotism, 
or  humanity?  Shall  we  not  rather  run  the  risk  of 
obtaining  one  who  habitually  violates  the  most  impor- 


CHATSWORTH,    TEN     YEARS     AGO.        135 

tant  rules  of  religion  and  morality  ?  Shall  we  not  in 
all  probability  get  an  individual  who,  if  estimated 
according  to  his  real  character,  and  divested  of  rank 
and  wealth,  will  be  only  worthy  of  detestation  and  con 
tempt?  But  even  though  his  character  be  such,  the 
people  must  learn  to  look  on  him  with  reverence,  as  a 
being  of  superior  mould ;  one  who  is  above  other  men, 
and  not  responsible  to  the  vulgar  obligations  of  justice, 
truth,  and  honesty,  which  bind  the  rest  of  mankind. 
They  must  slave  or  starve  their  bodies  to  pamper  him, 
his  horses,  his  dogs,  and  my  lady's  poodle.  They  must 
abase  their  minds  in  subservience  to  his  plans,  whims 
and  caprices.  They  must  lose  self-respect,  and  make 
the  noble  Duke  the  centre  of  their  pride.  Even 
if  subjected  by  him  to  tyranny,  insult,  or  violence  — 
like  the  lashed  hound,  they  must  forget,  forgive,  and 
lick  the  hand  that  administers  the  blow. 

It  is  for  such  a  man  and  such  purposes,  that  this  pal 
ace  is  to  be  erected  ;  is  it  for  such  a  man  that  three  or 
four  thousand  people  are  to  be  degraded.  It  is  for  one 
man,  and  that  man  worthless,  if  measured  by  a  standard 
of  truth  and  virtue  —  it  is  to  contribute  to  his  pleasures, 
to  pamper  his  luxuries, —  that  the  peace,  happiness  and 
dignity  of  thousands  are  to  be  destroyed.  It  is  for  one 
worthless  individual  that  thousands  are  to  exchange 
independence  for  dependence,  and  freedom  of  body 
and  soul,  for  servility  to  rank;  intelligence  for  igno 
rance  ;  respectability  for  degradation.  In  other  words, 
at  least  one  half  of  the  community  is  to  be  impoverish 
ed  and  debased  —  reduced  from  comfort  and  prosperity 
to  a  narrow  subsistence  and  a  withering  dependence, 


136       CHATSWORTH,    TEN    YEARS     AGO. 

for  the  sole  purpose  of  creating  a  palace  that  may  be 
a  depository  of  luxury  and  art,  and  furnishing  it  with 
a  duke  at  once  licentious  and  refined ! 

And  this,  no  doubt,  is  the  "  consummation  devoutly 
to  be  wished"  by  the  lovers  —  the  admirers  of  privi 
leged  aristocracy.  But  how  great  must  be  the  preju 
dice  of  that  mind  which  conceives  the  change  we  have 
imagined  to  be  a  desirable  one  ;  and  how  fearful  must 
be  the  wickedness  of  that  heart,  which  seeing  the  sub 
ject  in  its  true  light,  would  reduce  thousands  to  a  state 
of  misery  for  the  purpose  of  bestowing  wealth  and  rank 
upon  a  single  family  ! 


THE  TURKEY  AND  RATTLESNAKE. 

ON  a  fine  day  in  summer,  a  wild  turkey  was  walking 
across  one  of  the  prairies  of  the  far  West.  As  the  sun 
shone  upon  his  glossy  neck,  he  cast  his  eye  downward, 
and  seemed  lost  in  admiration  of  his  own  beauty. 
While  engaged  in  this  way,  he  heard  something  his 
sing  in  the  grass ;  and  soon  a  rattlesnake  issued  from 
the  spot,  and  coiling  himself  up,  placed  himself  before 
the  turkey.  The  latter  grew  very  red  in  the  face, 
spread  his  tail  and  wings  to  their  utmost  extent,  and 
having  strutted  back  and  forth  several  times,  approach 
ed  the  snake,  and  spoke  as  follows : 

"  You  impudent  serpent !  Was  it  you  that  I  heard 
laughing  at  me  in  the  grass  ?  How  dare  you  laugh  at 
me,  the  handsomest  cock-turkey  of  the  whole  prairie  ? 
Have  I  not  the  reddest  wattles,  the  largest  comb, 
the  blackest  wing,  and  the  glossiest  neck,  of  any  bird 
that  is  seen  on  the  plain?  Did  not  my  grandfather 
swallow  an  alligator  alive,  and  could  I  not  take  down 
such  a  little  insignificant  thing  as  you,  without  wink 
ing?" 

"  Do  n't  put  yourself  in  a  passion,"  said  the  serpent 
in  reply,  at  the  same  time  swelling  up  —  his  flesh  writh 
ing,  and  the  colors  of  his  skin  growing  very  bright. 
"Don't  put  yourself  in  a  passion;  I  know  you're  a 


138  THE  TURKEY  AND  RATTLESNAKE. 

coward,  like  the  whole  of  your  race,  and  you  are  as 
vain  as  you  are  timid." 

Upon  this,  the  turkey  seemed  bursting  with  rage; 
his  throat  was  so  choked,  that  he  could  not  speak  dis 
tinctly,  but  he  gobbled  the  louder.  He  also  strutted 
round  in  a  circle,  grating  the  ends  of  his  wings  upon 
the  ground.  At  length  he  came  bristling  up  toward 
the  serpent,  who  being  mortally  offended,  coiled  him 
self  into  a  ball,  and  springing  toward  the  turkey,  struck 
him  in  the  neck  with  his  fangs  and  inflicted  a  fatal 
wound.  The  latter  in  return  gave  the  serpent  a  deep 
scratch  in  the  side,  and  both  fell  dead  upon  the  ground. 

A  wise  ant  that  dwelt  in  a  little  hillock  near  by,  and 
saw  the  whole  affray,  crawled  to  the  spot,  and  made  the 
following  sage  observations  :  "  It  would  seem  that  this 
vast  prairie  were  wide  enough  for  the  creatures  that 
dwell  upon  it  to  live  together  in  peace ;  but  alas  !  their 
angry  passions  lead  to  strife,  and  strife  ends  in  death. 
Nor  is  this  all.  As  the  poison  of  the  serpent  taints 
these  carcasses,  so  an  evil  name  always  follows  those 
who  { die  as  the  fool  dieth  ! '  " 


THE   SWISS   BOY'S   FAREWELL. 


SWEET  River  Rhone  !  Sweet  River  Rhone ! 

Thou  playmate  of  my  earliest  day  ! 
I  've  wandered  many  a  weary  mile, 

And  yet  along  thy  banks  I  stray. 
Mount  Furca*  now  is  far  behind,  — 

That  cradle  which  we  both  have  known ; 
And  this* they  say,  is  France ;  but  still 

I  'm  with  a  friend,  sweet  River  Rhone ! 

I  'm  with  a  friend  whose  every  wave 

Leaps  gaily  by  my  father's  door, 
And  many  a  pleasing  thought  I  've  had 

To  see  thee  there  fret,  foam,  and  roar. 
I  've  wondered  in  my  childish  dreams, 

If  in  thy  tide  some  sky  was  thrown, 
To  make  thy  waters  all  so  blue, 

So  like  to  heaven,  sweet  River  Rhone ! 

The  glaciers  at  old  Furca's  top 

Did  seem  thy  cold,  blue,  nursing  mother, 

And  thou  an  infant  chill  and  lone, 

Toddling  from  one  rough  stone  to  t'  other. 

*  The  source  of  the  Rhone  is  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  Alps, 
called  Mount  Furca. 


140  THE     SWISS     BOY'S     FAREWELL. 

But  soon  thou  learned3 st  to  leap  and  run, 
And  then  at  last  thou  went'st  alone, 

Yet  brighter  ever  didst  thou  flow, 

When  I  was  there,  sweet  River  Rhone ! 

And  now  we  've  come  together  here, 

By  many  a  turn,  through  many  a  dell,  — 
O'er  rock,  and  crag,  and  beetling  wall,  — 

To  part  at  last  —  to  say  farewell. 
We  part,  —  for  thou  must  seek  the  sea, 

And  go  thy  way  to  me  unknown  ; 
And  I  must  on  to  Paris  hie, 

As  lost  to  thee,  sweet  River  Rhone  ! 

Farewell !  nor  deem  them  idle  tears, 

That  down  my  cheek  unbidden  flow ; 
For  now  thou  seem'st  my  dearest  friend, 

Thou  'rt  linked  with  home  and  parents  so. 
Farewell !  but  rest  and  ease  shall  be 

To  these  young  limbs  unsought,  unknown, 
Till,  blest  with  wealth,  the  Swiss  return 

To  home  and  thee,  sweet  River  Rhone ! 


THE  OAK  AND   INSECT. 

AN  oak  was  tormented  with  a  worm  that  had  eaten 
into  its  vitals,  and  was  gnawing  at  its  very  heart.  In 
vain  did  the  haughty  tree  wring,  and  twist,  and  groan  in 
the  wind;  it  had  no  means  of  reaching  the  insect.  At 
last  a  little  woodpecker  alighted  upon  the  tree,  and  heard 
its  grievous  wailing.  Guessing  at  the  cause  of  the  trou 
ble,  he  began  to  drum  with  his  long  bill  upon  the  bark 
of  the  tree,  and  soon  he  heard  the  worm  shrinking  from 
detection.  Thus  he  discovered  his  prey,  and  putting 
his  barbed  tongue  into  a  hole,  he  lanced  the  worm 
through  the  body  and  pulled  him  out  in  an  instant. 
Thus  the  mighty  oak  was  relieved  by  a  very  humble 
bird,  and  thus  the  great  and  the  powerful  may  be 
benefited  by  the  weak  and  insignificant. 


;\ 


13 


THE  BENEFITS  OP  INDUSTRY. 

THERE  are  many  persons  who  regard  every  species 
of  labor  as  an  evil.  Children  are  often  unhappy,  be 
cause  they  must  study  in  order  to  acquire  knowledge ; 
and  men  and  women  sometimes  complain,  because 
they  must  sow  before  they  can  reap.  To  all  such 
persons  I  would  tell  the  following  allegory,  which  may 
suggest  the  lesson,  that  industry  is  a  blessing,  and  indo 
lence  a  curse. 

There  was  once  in  the  city  of  Bagdat  a  little  boy, 
who  was  poor,  and  obliged  to  earn  his  daily  bread 
by  rearing  flowers  in  a  small  garden.  As  the  price 
of  flowers  in  that  luxuriant  climate  is  extremely  low, 
he  was  compelled  to  be  very  industrious  in  order  to 
obtain  necessary  food  and  clothing.  But  still  he  had 
good  health,  and  he  ate  his  coarse  meal  with  high 
!  relish  and  satisfaction.  But  this  was  not  his  greatest 
>  pleasure;  his  flowers  were  a  perpetual  source  of  en 
joyment.  They  were  his  flowers;  he  planted  them, 
he  watered  them,  pruned  and  nurtured  them.  Besides 
all  this,  they  were  the  source  of  his  livelihood.  They 
gave  him  bread,  shelter,  and  raiment.  He  therefore 
loved  them  as  if  they  were  his  companions.  He  saw 
them  spring  out  of  the  ground  with  pleasure ;  he  watched 
the  budding  leaves  and  unfolding  flowers  with  delight. 

But  at  length  discontent  sprung  up  in  his  mind,  and, 


THE     BENEFITS     OF     INDUSTRY.  143 

in  the  evening  of  a  hot  day,  he  sat  down  in  his  garden, 
and  began  to  murmur.  "  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  that  flowers 
would  plant,  and  prune,  and  water  themselves.  I  am 
tired  of  this  incessant  toil.  Would  that  some  good 
genius  would  step  in,  and  bring  me  flowers  already 
made,  so  that  I  might  be  saved  all  this  trouble!" 
Scarcely  had  he  uttered  this  thought,  when  a  beautiful 
being  in  bright  colors  stood  before  him,  and  said:  "  You 
called  me,  boy;  what  do  you  desire?"  "I  am  weary 
of  my  employment,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  live  by  cultivating 
flowers.  I  am  obliged  to  toil,  day  by  day,  with  un 
ceasing  industry,  and  I  am  only  able  to  obtain  my  daily 
bread.  If  I  mistake  not,  you  are  a  kind  and  powerful 
genius,  who  can  give  me  flowers  if  you  will,  and  save 
me  all  this  toil." 

"  Here ! "  said  the  genius,  holding  forth  a  beautiful 
fan  of  feathers,  "  take  this ;  wave  it  over  the  earth  in 
your  flower-pots,  and  the  brightest  blossoms  of  Cash 
mere  will  spring  up  at  your  bidding ! "  Saying  this, 
the  spirit  departed. 

The  boy  received  the  charmed  fan  with  great  delight, 
and  waved  it  over  one  of  his  flower-pots.  A  bud  im 
mediately  shot  up  through  the  soil,  gradually  unfolded 
itself,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  beautiful  moss-rose,  bloom 
ing  and  fragrant,  stood  before  him !  I  need  not  describe 
the  transports  of  the  little  gardener.  He  found  his 
charmed  fan  to  be  just  the  thing  he  had  desired.  He 
had  now  no  labor  to  perform ;  a  few  sweeps  of  his  fan 
brought  him  all  the  flowers  he  needed.  He  therefore 
spent  his  time  in  luxurious  indolence. 

Things  went  on  very  well  for  a  fortnight.     But  now 


144 


THE  BENEFITS  OF  INDUSTRY. 


a  different  kind  of  weariness  began  to  creep  over  him. 
His  appetite,  too,  failed  by  degrees,  and  he  no  longer 
enjoyed  his  meals.  He  lost  his  interest,  likewise,  in 
the  flowers.  He  saw  no  beauty  in  their  bloom ;  their 
very  odor  became  sickening.  The  poor  boy  was  un 
happy,  and  again  began  to  murmur.  "  I  wish,"  said 
he,  "  the  genius  would  come  back  and  take  away  this 
foolish  fan."  In  a  moment  the  bright  being  was  stand 
ing  at  his  side. 

"  Here,"  said  the  boy,  handing  forth  the  fan ;  "  take 
back  the  charm  you  gave  me  !  Forgive  me,  sweet  gen 
ius,  but  I  was  mistaken.  The  weariness  of  indolence  is 
far  worse  than  the  weariness  of  industry.  I  loved  the 
flowers  which  were  produced  by  my  own  skill  and  care  ; 
but  things  which  cost  nothing  are  worth  nothing. 
Take  back  the  charm,  and  leave  me  to  that  humble 
happiness,  which  my  own  industry  can  secure,  but 
which  your  potent  spell  would  chase  away." 


JACK  FROST. 

WHO  hath  killed  the  smiling  flow'rs 
Once  so  fair  in  yonder  bowers? 
Who  hath  ta'en  away  their  bloom, 
Who  hath  swept  them  to  the  tomb  1 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  hath  chased  the  birds  so  gay, 
Lark  and  linnet,  all  away  ? 
Who  hath  hushed  their  joyous  breath, 
And  made  the  woodland  still  as  death? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  hath  chilled  the  romping  river  ? 
Who  doth  make  the  old  oak  shiver  ? 
Who  hath  wrapped  the  world  in  snow  ? 
Who  doth  make  the  wild  winds  blow  ? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  doth  ride  on  snowy  drift 
When  the  night  wind  's  keen  and  swift- 
O'er  the  land  and  o'er  the  sea — • 
Bent  on  mischief —  who  is  he  ? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  doth  strike  with  icy  dart, 

The  way-worn  traveller  to  the  heart  ? 

13* 


146  JACK     FROST. 

Who  doth  make  the  ocean-wave  — 
The  seaman's  home  —  the  seaman's  grave? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  doth  prowl  at  midnight  hour 
Like  a  thief  around  the  door, 
Through  each  crack  and  crevice  creeping, 
Through  the  very  key-hole  peeping  ? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 

Who  doth  pinch  the  traveller's  toes? 
Who  doth  sting  the  school-boy's  nose  ? 
Who  doth  make  your  fingers  tingle? 
Who  doth  make  the  sleigh-bells  jingle? 
Jack  Frost  —  Jack  Frost. 


THE  PEDLER. 

A    CHAPTER    FROM    AN   UNPUBLISHED    ROMANCE. 

I  WAS  now  the  proprietor  of  a  book-store  in  Pearl 
street,  my  establishment  being  devoted  chiefly  to  the 
selling  of  school  books,  and  such  works  as  were  in 
large  demand ;  psalmns  and  hymns,  bibles,  and  Web 
ster's  spelling-books,  constituted  a  large  portion  of  the 
articles  in  which  I  dealt.  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  the 
Scottish  Chiefs,  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  Sanford  and 
Merton,  Paradise  Lost,  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  Caleb 
Williams,  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife, 
and  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  were  the  class  of  books 
which  constituted  the  belles-lettres  part  of  my  stock  in 
trade. 

My  dealings  were  chiefly  with  country  merchants  and 
Connecticut  pedlers,  who  operated  in  the  southern  and 
western  States.  A  sketch  of  a  single  customer  will 
throw  light  upon  this  portion  of  my  life. 

"Good  morning,  Doctor,"  —  for  the  title  I  had  ac 
quired  in  the  apothecary's  shop,  still  adhered  to  me ;  — 
"  how  are  you,  my  old  cock  ? " 

The  man  who  entered  my  shop,  and  addressed  me  in 
these  words,  was  tall  and  thin,  with  lank  hair,  and  a 
pair  of  wide  drab  corduroy  pantaloons,  and  a  butternut- 


148  THE      PEDLER. 

colored  coat,  of  ample  width  and  prodigal  length  of 
skirts.  His  dress  was  loose  as  that  of  a  Turk's,  and  the 
motions  of  the  man  within  were  as  free  as  a  wild-cat's. 
There  was  a  careless  ease  in  his  gait,  which  seemed  to 
show  that  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  either  the 
restraints  of  nicely-adjusted  garments  or  tight-laced 
breeding. 

My  reply  to  the  man  was  hearty.  "  Good  morning, 
God  bless  you !  how  are  you,  Mr.  Fleecer  1 "  This  was 
said  while  a  mutual  grapple  of  the  hands  took  place, 
attended  by  an  undulating  motion  of  the  whole  frame. 

After  a  few  more  congratulatory  words,  we  proceeded 
to  business.  With  a  vast  deal  of  higgling,  the  pedler 
laid  out  a  variety  of  articles,  generally  selecting  them 
with  a  reference  to  two  points,  bulk  and  cheapness.  The 
idea  he  entertained  of  his  customers  seemed  to  be,  that 
they  would  buy  books,  as  they  would  load  a  boat,  by 
the  measure  of  size  only.  So  nice  a  test  as  weight, 
even,  was  in  his  experience  too  subtile  and  delicate  a 
principle  to  be  used  in  the  purchase  of  these  articles. 
The  subject,  the  manner  in  which  it  was  treated,  the 
name  of  the  author,  the  quality  of  paper  and  print, 
were  all  considerations  either  secondary  or  overlooked. 

Having  made  up  the  bulk  of  his  purchases  in  this 
way,  Mr.  Fleecer  looked  over  my  shelves,  and  poked 
about  in  every  nook  and  corner,  as  if  searching  for 
something  he  could  not  find.  At  length  taking  me 
to  the  farther  end  of  my  shop,  and  stealing  a  heedful 
glance  around,  to  see  that  no  one  could  overhear  us,  he 
spoke  as  follows,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Well,  Doctor  —  you  're  a  doctor,  you  know,  —  now 


THE      PEDLER.  149 

let  me  see  some  books  in  the  doctors'  line.  I  suppose 
you  've  got  Aristotle's ?  " 

"  No,  indeed !  "  said  I. 

"  Oh !  none  of  your  gammon :  come,  out  with  it !  I'll 
pay  a  good  price." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  have  n't  a  copy!  " 

"  You  have  !  I  know  you  have !  " 

"I  tell  you  I  have  not." 

"  Well,  haven't  you  got  Volney's  Ruins?  " 

"  No." 

"Nor  Tom  Paine?" 

"  No." 

«  Nor ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  copy." 

"  Are  you  in  airnest,  Doctor  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  never  keep  such  books." 

"  Who  said  you  did  1  You  do  n't  keep  'em,  ha?  Nor 
I  nother ;  I  only  axed  you  to  let  me  see  'em !  Aint  my 
father  a  deacon  in  Pokkytunk,  and  do  you  suppose  I 
want  to  meddle  with  such  infidel  trash  ?  Not  I.  Still, 
there  's  no  harm  in  looking,  I  suppose.  A  cat  may  look 
on  a  king,  may  n't  she,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  no  doubt." 

"  Well,  well,  that's  settled.  Have  you  got  Young's 
Night  Thoughts?" 

"  Plenty." 

"  Let  me  see  one." 

Here  I  showed  Mr.  Fleecer  the  book. 

"  This  is  not  the  right  kind,"  said  he.  "  I  want  that 
edition  that's  got  the  picter  at  the  beginning  of  a  gal 
walken  out  by  starlight,  called  Contemplation." 


150  THE      PEDLER. 

I  handed  my  customer  another  copy.  He  then  went 
on, — 

"  Aye,  this  is  it.  That  are  picter  there,  is  a  very 
material  pint,  Doctor.  The  young  fellers  down  in 
Kentucky  think  its  a  wolloping  kind  of  a  story,  you 
know,  about  some  gal  that 's  in  love.  They  look  at  the 
title  page,  and  see  '  NIGHT  THOUGHTS,  BY  ALEXAN 
DER  YOUNG.'  Well,  that  seems  as  if  it  meant  some 
thing  queer.  So  they  look  to  the  frontispiece  and  see 
a  female  all  wrapped  up  in  a  cloak,  goen  out  very  sly, 
with  nothing  under  heaven  but  the  stars  to  see  what 
she  's  about.  '  Hush,  hush,'  I  say,  and  look  round  as 
if  afeard  that  somebody  would  hear  us.  And  then  I 
shut  up  the  book,  and  put  it  into  my  chist,  and  deliber 
ately  lock  the  lid.  Then  the  feller  becomes  rampacious. 
He  begs,  and  wheedles,  and  natters,  and  at  last  he 
swears.  I  shake  my  head.  Finally  he  takes  out  a  five- 
dollar  bill ;  I  slip  it  into  my  pocket,  and  hand  him  out 
the  book  as  if  I  was  stealin,  and  tell  him  not  to  let  any 
body  know  who  sold  it  to  him,  and  not  to  take  off  the 
brown  paper  kiver  till  he  gets  shut  up  tight  in  his  own 
room.  I  then  say,  '  Good  day,  mister,'  and  clear  out 
like  chain  lightning,  for  the  next  county." 

"  You  seem  to  be  pleased  with  your  recollections, 
Fleecer." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  snickering  when  I  think  of  them 
fellers.  Why,  Bleech,  I  sold  more  than  tew  hundred 
o'  them  Night  Thoughts,  for  five  dollars  a-piece,  in 
Kentucky,  last  winter,  and  all  the  fellers  bought  'em 
under  the  idea  that 't  was  some  queer  story,  too  good  to 
be  altogether  decent." 


THE      PEDLER.  151 

"  So  you  cheated  'em,  ha  1 " 

"  I  cheated  'em?  not  I,  indeed !  If  they  were  cheated 
at  all,  they  cheated  themselves,  I  guess?  I  didn't  tell 
'em  a  lie.  Could  n't  they  see  for  themselves  ?  Hav  n't 
they  got  eyes  ?  Why,  what  should  a  feller  du  ?  They 
come  smelling  about  like  rats  arter  cheese,  and  ax  me 
if  I  haint  got  some  rowdy  books :  I  show  'em  the  Sky 
Lark  and  Peregrine  Pickle,  and  so  on,  but  they  want 
something  better.  Well,  now,  as  I  told  you  afore,  I  'm 
a  deacon's  son,  and  I  don't  like  to  sell  Tom  Paine  and 
Volney's  Ruins,  and  that  sort  o'  thing.  So,  thinks  I  to 
myself —  I  '11  play  them  sparks  a  Yankee  trick.  They 
want  some  rowdy  books,  and  I  '11  sell  'em  something 
pious.  In  this  way  they  may  get  some  good,  and  in  the 
course  of  Providence,  they  may  be  convarted.  Well, 
the  first  one  I  tried,  it  worked  like  ginger.  He  bought 
the  book  at  a  tavern.  Arter  he'd  got  it  he  couldn't 
hardly  wait,  he  was  so  fairse  to  read  it.  So  he  went 
into  a  room,  and  I  peeped  through  the  key-hole.  He 
began  at  the  title-page,  and  then  he  looked  at  the  rigger 
of  Miss  Contemplation  walking  forth  among  the  stars. 
I  could  see  his  mouth  water.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
first  part,  and  begun  to  read.  I  heerd  him  as  plain  as 

Dr.  Belcher's  sarmon :  it  went  pretty  much  like  this, 

(Reads.) 
4  THE  COMPLAINT.  NIGHT  I.' 

"  'Good  —  that's  natural  enough,'  says  he.  (Reads.) 
'ON  LIFE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALITY,' 

"  '  Whew?  I  suppose  it's  some  feller  in  love,  and  is 
going  to  cut  his  throat.'  (Reads.) 


152  THE      PEDLER. 

«  Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays, 
When  fortune  smiles,' 

"  '  That 's  all  gammun ! '  (Reads.) 

*  Night !  sable  goddess  —  from  her  ebon  throne,' 

"  '  What  in  nater  is  the  fellow  at? '               (Reads.) 
1  The  bell  strikes  one ;  we  take  no  note  of  time,' 

"  '  Why,  that's  exactly  what  the  parson  said  in  his 
sarmon  last  Sunday  ! '  He  turns  over  several  pages. 

(Reads.) 
*  NIGHT  II.     ON  TIME,  DEATH  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

*  When  the  cock  crowed  he  wept,' 

" '  By  Saint  Peter,  I  'm  gummed !  That  d — d  Yankee 
pedler  has  sold  me  a  psalm-book,  or  something  of  the 
kind,  and  made  me  believe  it  was  a  rowdy.  The  in 
fernal  hypocrite  !  And  so  I  've  paid  five  dollars  for  a 
psalm-book !  Well,  it 's  a  good  joke,  and  the  fellow  de- 
sarves  his  money  for  his  ingenuity.  He,  he,  he !  ho,  ho, 
ho !  I  must  laugh,  tho'  I  'm  mad  as  a  snapping-turtle. 
Zachary  !  if  I  could  get  his  nose  betwixt  my  thumb  and 
finger,  I  'd  make  him  sing  every  line  in  the  book  to  a 
tune  of  my  own.  To  sell  me  a  psalm-book  !  — the  cant 
ing,  whining,  blue-light  pedler  !  Fire  and  brimstone ! 
it  makes  me  sweat  to  think  on  't.  And  he  did  it  so  sly, 
too  —  the  wooden-nutmeg  rascal !  I  wish  I  could  catch 
him ! ' 

"  By  this  time  I  thought  it  best  for  me  to  make  my 
self  scace.  I  had  paid  my  bill,  and  my  horse  and 
waggon  were  all  ready,  for  I  had  calculated  upon  a  bit 
of  a  breeze.  I  mounted  my  box,  and  having  axt  the 


THE      PEDLER 


153 


landlord  the  way  to  Lexington,  I  took  the  opposite  direc 
tion  to  throw  my  psalm-book  friend  off  the  scent,  in 
case  he  was  inclined  for  a  chase;  so  I  pursued  my 
journey  and  got  clear.  I  met  the  feller  about  six 
months  arter,  at  Nashville ;  I  was  goin  to  ax  him  if  he 
had  a  psalm-book  to  part  with,  but  he  looked  so  plaguey 
hard  at  me,  that  I  cocked  my  beaver  over  my  rightreye, 
and  squinted  with  the  left,  and  walked  on.  Sen  that,  I 
haint  seen  him." 


14 


THE  RIVER. 

OH  tell  me,  pretty  river ! 

Whence  do  thy  waters  flow  ? 
And  whither  art  thou  roaming, 

So  pensive  and  so  slow  1 

"  My  birthplace  was  the  mountain, 
My  nurse,  the  April  showers ; 
My  cradle  was  a  fountain 

O'er-curtained  by  wild  flowers. 

"  One  morn  I  ran  away, 

A  madcap  hoyden  rill  — 
And  many  a  prank  that  day 
I  played  adown  the  hill ! 

"  And  then,  mid  meadowy  banks, 

I  flirted  with  the  flowers, 
That  stooped  with  glowing  lips, 
To  woo  me  to  their  bowers. 

"  But  these  bright  scenes  are  o'er, 
And  darkly  flows  my  wave  — 
I  hear  the  ocean's  roar, 

And  there  must  be  my  grave !  " 


GUESS    MY   NAME. 

Go,  gather  from  the  laughing  wave, 

Where  ripples  bright  o'er  sea-shells  shine, 

The  sweetest  tone  thine  ear  can  crave,  — 
A  sweeter  voice  than  this  is  mine. 

Go,  listen  to  the  whispering  leaves, 

When  summer's  wooing  winds  are  nigh;  — 

My  breath,  a  softer  music,  weaves 
Around  the  breast  its  magic  sigh. 

In  every  land  where  young  hearts  feel, 
Love  holds  my  service  very  dear,  — 

And  many  a  bond  I  'm  called  to  seal, 
No  witness,  but  the  parties,  near. 

Both  dear  and  cheap,  at  once  am  I,  — 
A  thing  that  love  will  give  away, 

And  shining  gold  can  hardly  buy  : 
Oh,  need  I  now  my  name  display  ? 


THE   TWINS. 

IN  the  autumn  of  1826,  I  had  occasion  to  visit  the 

town  of  N ,  beautifully  situated  on  the  western 

bank  of  the  Connecticut  River.  My  business  led  me  to 

the  house  of  B ,  a  lawyer  of  threescore  and  ten, 

who  was  now  resting  from  his  labors,  and  enjoying  the 
fruits  of  a  life  strenuously  and  successfully  devoted  to 
his  profession.  His  drawing-room  was  richly  furnished, 
and  decorated  with  several  valuable  paintings. 

There  was  one  among  them  that  particularly  at 
tracted  my  attention.  It  represented  a  mother  with  two 
children,  one  in  either  arm,  a  light  veil  thrown  over  the 
group,  and  one  of  the  children  pressing  its  lips  to  the 
cheek  of  its  mother.  "  That,"  said  I,  pointing  to  the 
picture,  "  is  very  beautiful.  Pray,  Sir,  what  is  the 
subject  of  it  ?  "  "  It  is  a  mother  and  her  twins,"  said  he ; 
"  the  picture  in  itself  is  esteemed  a  fine  one,  but  I  value 
it  more  for  the  recollections  which  are  associated  with 
it."  I  turned  my  eye  upon  B ;  he  looked  commu 
nicative,  and  I  asked  him  for  the  story.  "  Sit  down," 
said  he,  "  and  I  will  tell  it."  We  accordingly  sat 
down,  and  he  gave  me  the  following  narrative. 

"  During  the  war  of  the  Revolution,  there  resided 
in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts,  a  farmer  by  the 
name  of  Stedman.  He  was  a  man  of  substance,  de 
scended  from  a  very  respectable  English  family,  well 


THE     TWINS. 


157 


educated,  distinguished  for  great  firmness  of  character 
in  general,  and  alike  remarkable  for  inflexible  integrity 
and  steadfast  loyalty  to  the  king.  Such  was  the  repu 
tation  he  sustained,  that  even  when  the  most  violent  an 
tipathies  against  royalists  swayed  the  community,  it  was 
still  admitted  on  all  hands,  that  farmer  Stedman,  though 
a  tory,  was  honest  in  his  opinions,  and  firmly  believed 
them  to  be  right. 

"  The  period  came  when  Burgoyne  was  advancing 
from  the  north.  It  was  a  time  of  great  anxiety  with 
both  the  friends  and  foes  of  the  Revolution,  and  one 
which  called  forth  their  highest  exertions.  The  patri 
otic  militia  flocked  to  the  standard  of  Gates  and  Stark, 
while  many  of  the  tories  resorted  to  .the  quarters  of 
Burgoyne  and  Baum.  Among  the  latter  was  farmer 
Stedman. 

"  He  had  no  sooner  decided  it  to  be  his  duty,  than  he 
took  a  kind  farewell  of  his  wife,  a  woman  of  uncommon 
beauty ;  gave  his  children,  a  twin  boy  and  girl,  a  long 
embrace,  then  mounted  his  horse  and  departed.  He 
joined  himself  to  the  unfortunate  expedition  of  Baum, 
and  was  taken,  with  other  prisoners  of  war,  by  the  victo 
rious  Stark. 

"  He  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  name  or  char 
acter,  which  were  both  soon  discovered,  and  he  was 
accordingly  committed  to  prison  as  a  traitor.  The  gaol 
in  which  he  was  confined  was  in  the  western  part  of 
Massachusetts,  and  nearly  in  a  ruinous  condition.  The 
farmer  was  one  night  waked  from  his  sleep  by  several 
persons  in  his  room.  '  Come,'  said  they,  '  you  can  now 
regain  your  liberty;  we  have  made  a  breach  in  the 

14* 


158 


THE     TWINS. 


prison  through  which  you  can  escape.'  To  their  aston 
ishment,  he  utterly  refused  to  leave  his  prison.  In  vain 
did  they  expostulate  with  him ;  in  vain  they  represented  to 
him  that  his  life  was  at  stake.  His  reply  was,  that  he 
was  a  true  man,  and  a  servant  of  King  George,  and  he 
would  not  creep  out  of  a  hole  at  night,  and  sneak  away 
from  the  rebels,  to  save  his  neck  from  the  gallows. 
Finding  it  fruitless  to  attempt  to  remove  him,  his  friends 
left  him  with  some  expressions  of  spleen. 

"  The  time  at  length  arrived  for  the  trial  of  the  pris 
oner.  The  distance  to  the  place,  where  the  court  was 
sitting,  was  about  sixty  miles.  Stedman  remarked  to  the 
sheriff,  that  it  would  save  some  expense  if  he  could  be 
permitted  to  go  alone,  and  on  foot.  '  And  suppose,' 
said  the  sheriff,  '  that  you  should  prefer  your  safety  to 
your  honor,  and  leave  me  to  seek  you  in  the  British 
camp  ? '  'I  had  thought,'  said  the  farmer,  reddening 
with  indignation,  '  that  I  was  speaking  to  one  who  knew 
me.'  '  I  do  know  you,  indeed,'  said  the  sheriff;  '  I  spoke 
but  in  jest;  you  shall  have  your  own  way.  Go !  and  on 

the  third  day  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  at  S .'  The 

farmer  departed,  and,  at  the  appointed  time,  he  placed 
himself  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff. 

"  I  was  now  engaged  as  his  counsel.  Stedman  insisted 
before  the  court  upon  telling  his  whole  story;  and, 
when  I  would  have  taken  advantage  of  some  technical 
points,  he  sharply  rebuked  me,  and  told  me  that  he  had 
not  employed  me  to  prevaricate,  but  only  to  assist  him 
in  telling  the  truth.  I  had  never  seen  such  a  display  of 
simple  integrity. 

"  It  was  affecting  to  witness  his  love  of  holy,  unvar- 


THE     TWINS. 


159 


nished  truth,  elevating  him  above  every  other  considera 
tion,  and  presiding  in  his  breast  as  a  sentiment  even 
superior  to  the  love  of  life.  I  saw  the  tears  more  than 
once  springing  to  the  eyes  of  his  judges;  never  before 
or  since  have  I  felt  such  interest  in  a  client.  I  pleaded 
for  him  as  I  would  have  pleaded  for  my  own  life,  —  I 
drew  tears,  but  I  could  not  sway  the  judgment  of  stern 
men,  controlled  rather  by  a  sense  of  duty  than  by  the 
compassionate  promptings  of  humanity. 

"  Stedman  was  condemned.  I  told  him  there  was  a 
chance  of  pardon,  if  he  asked  for  it.  I  drew  up  a  peti 
tion  and  requested  him  to  sign  it,  but  he  refused.  '  I 
have  done,'  said  he,  '  what  I  thought  my  duty.  I  can 
ask  pardon  of  my  God,  and  my  king ;  but  it  would  be 
hypocrisy  to  ask  forgiveness  of  these  men  for  an  action 
which  I  should  repeat,  were  I  placed  again  in  similar 
circumstances. 

"  '  No !  ask  me  not  to  sign  that  petition.  If  what 
you  call  the  cause  of  American  freedom  requires  the 
blood  of  an  honest  man  for  a  conscientious  discharge  of 
what  he  deemed  his  duty,  let  me  be  its  victim.  Go  to 
my  judges  and  tell  them,  that  I  place  not  my  fears  nor 
my  hopes  in  them.'  It  was  in  vain  that  I  pressed  the 
subject,  and  I  went  away  in  despair. 

"  In  returning  to  my  house,  I  accidentally  called  on 
an  acquaintance,  a  young  man  of  brilliant  genius,  the 
subject  of  a  passionate  predilection  for  painting.  This 
led  him  frequently  to  take  excursions  into  the  country, 
for  the  purpose  of  sketching  such  objects  and  scenes  as 
were  interesting  to  him.  From  one  of  these  rambles 
he  had  just  returned.  I  found  him  sitting  at  his  easel 


160  THE     TWINS. 

giving  the  last  touches  to  the  picture  which  has  just 
attracted  your  attention. 

"  He  asked  my  opinion  of  it.  '  It  is  a  fine  picture/ 
said  I ;  '  is  it  a  fancy  piece,  or  are  these  portraits  1 ' 
'  They  are  portraits/  said  he,  '  and,  save  perhaps  a  little 
embellishment,  they  are,  I  think,  striking  portraits  of 
the  wife  and  children  of  your  unfortunate  client,  Sted- 
man.  In  the  course  of  my  rambles,  I  chanced  to  call 

at  his  house  in  H .  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful 

group.  The  mother  is  one  of  a  thousand,  and  the  twins 
are  a  pair  of  cherubs.' 

"  '  Tell  me/  said  I,  laying  my  hand  on  the  picture, 
'  tell  me,  are  they  true  and  faithful  portraits  of  the  wife 
and  children  of  Stedman  ? '  My  earnestness  made  my 
friend  stare.  He  assured  me,  that,  so  far  as  he  could 
be  permitted  to  judge  of  his  own  productions,  they  were 
striking  representations.  I  asked  no  further  questions ; 
I  seized  the  picture,  and  hurried  with  it  to  the  prison, 
where  my  client  was  confined. 

"  I  found  him  sitting,  his  face  covered  with  his  hands, 
and  apparently  wrung  by  keen  emotion.  I  placed  the 
picture  in  such  a  situation  that  he  could  not  fail  to  see 
it.  I  laid  the  petition  on  the  little  table  by  his  side,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  In  half  an  hour  I  returned.  The  farmer  grasped 
my  hand,  while  tears  stole  down  his  cheeks ;  his  eye 
glanced  first  upon  the  picture,  and  then  to  the  petition. 
He  said  nothing,  but  handed  the  latter  to  me.  I  took 
it  and  left  the  apartment.  His  name  was  fairly  written 
at  the  bottom  !  The  petition  was  granted,  and  Sted 
man  was  set  at  liberty." 


THE    LIAR. 

IN  Eden  first,  where  flowers  were  blooming  round, 

And  all  was  bliss,  the  creeping  LIAR  was  found : 

Envy  and  malice  in  his  heart  he  bore, 

And  the  sly  Serpent's  slippery  garb  he  wore. 

He  entered,  and  the  rose  became  a  thorn  — 

Sorrow  of  Joy,  and  Care  of  Peace,  were  born! 

And  ever  since  that  dark  and  gloomy  hour, 

The  fell  Deceiver  loves  to  try  his  power. 

Beauty  or  virtue,  honor,  worth  —  inspire  — 

As  Eden  once,  the  Serpent's  venomed  ire. 

To  do  the  work,  too  paltry  for  the  Mind 

That  struck  a  master-blow  at  all  mankind, 

The  Tempter  keeps,  apprenticed  to  his  art, 

His  dastard  minions,  taught  to  play  their  part. 

Supplied  by  him  with  venomed  fangs  to  bite, 

These  little  adders  seek  to  shed  their  spite ; 

Happy  if  some  unguarded  spot  they  find, 

Where  they  may  strike  and  wound  the  shrinking  mind. 

Thus  oft  the  Critic,  lowest  of  them  all, 
Essays  to  signalize  his  bosomed  gall. 
Alas,  vain  viper!  thou  mayest  plead  the  spite, 
That  nature  did  thee,  —  and  maintain  thy  right, 
To  match  a  hunchback  spirit,  with  a  mind 
As  much  a  monster,  and  perfect  thy  kind. 
Go  on  and  do  thy  work !  nor  fear  to  sting ; 
'T  were  pitiful  to  crush  so  poor  a  thing  ! 


TO  *****, 
THE  GENIUS  OF  PLAINTIVE  MUSIC. 

WHEN  Eol's  finger  strikes  the  string, 
It  yields  a  wild  and  wailing  tone, — 

Yet,  like  some  night-bird's  whistling  wing, 
It  seems  a  thing  of  sound  alone. 

The  wooing  dove,  the  lapsing  rill, 

The  waves  that  faint  on  ocean's  shore, 

Can  touch  the  ear  with  pleasure's  thrill, 
But  all  their  art  can  do  no  more. 

The  notes  of  yonder  breathing  flute, 
Soft  as  the  voice  of  one  above, 

Would  leave  the  unanswering  bosom  mute, 
If  fancy  linked  it  not  with  love. 

The  spirit  harp  within  the  breast 
A  spirit's  touches  only  knows, 

Yet  thine  the  power  to  break  its  rest, 
And  all  its  melody  disclose. 

Yes,  —  and  thy  minstrel  art  the  while, 
Can  blend  the  tones  of  weal  and  wo, 

So  archly,  that  the  heart  may  smile, 

Though  bright,  unbidden  tear-drops  flow. 


GENIUS     OP     PLAINTIVE     MUSIC.  163 

And  thus  thy  wizard  skill  can  weave 
Music's  soft  twilight  o'er  the  breast, 

As  mingling  day  and  night,  at  eve, 
Robe  the  far  purpling  hills  for  rest. 

Thy  voice  is  treasured  in  my  soul, 
And  echoing  memory  shall  prolong 

Those  woman  tones,  whose  sweet  control 
Melts  joy  and  sorrow  into  song. 

The  tinted  sea-shell,  borne  away 
Far  from  the  ocean's  pebbly  shore, 

Still  loves  to  hum  the  choral  lay, 

The  whispering  mermaid  taught  of  yore. 

The  hollow  cave,  that  once  hath  known 
Echo's  lone  voice,  can  ne'er  forget  — 

But  gives  —  though  parting  years  have  flown  - 
The  wild  responsive  cadence  yet. 

So  shall  thy  plaintive  melody, 

Undying,  linger  in  my  heart, 
Till  the  last  string  of  memory, 

By  death's  chill  finger  struck,  shall  part ! 


THE  GIANT  AND  THE  ANTS. 

A  CERTAIN  neighborhood  was  once  infested  with  ants, 
and  the  people  employed  a  giant  to  destroy  them. 
Although  the  giant  came  with  a  mighty  club,  and  laid 
about  him  furiously,  he  only,  now  and  then,  slew  a 
single  ant.  The  little  creatures  at  first  laughed  at  his 
efforts,  and  actually  crawled  up  his  legs,  and  began  to 
annoy  him  terribly.  They  also  increased  rapidly.  At 
last,  it  was  seen  that  the  giant  could  not  extirpate  them ; 
and  about  the  same  time,  a  wren,  offering  his  services, 
was  accepted,  and  soon  cleared  all  the  ants  away. 

Thus,  greatness  is  sometimes  baffled  by  littleness,  and 
meanness  itself  will  often  get  the  advantage  in  a  struggle 
with  the  highminded  and  the  honorable.  The  little  and 
the  low,  should  therefore  be  left  to  be  dealt  with  by 
those  of  their  own  nature  and  kind  —  those  whose  in 
stincts  enable  them  to  understand  and  conquer  the 
enemy  with  whom  they  are  to  contend. 


THE  SUSTAINER  OF  ALL  THINGS. 

IF  we  carefully  examine  the  various  works  of  creation 
to  be  found  upon  the  surface  of  this  earth,  we  shall  dis 
cover  that  they  all  testify  to  the  existence  of  a  God,  of 
infinite  skill  and  power.  We  shall  find  in  plants,  insects, 
animals,  and  man,  contrivances  which  show  a  design 
ing  mind  and  a  working  hand,  combining  wisdom  and 
ability,  infinitely  beyond  those  of  any  earthly  being,  and 
we  shall  therefore  be  compelled  to  refer  their  existence 
to  a  God,  all-wise  and  all-powerful. 

Even  supposing  that  we  could  account  for  the  ingen 
ious  structure  of  plants  and  animals  —  if  we  could  show 
that  they  made  themselves  —  still,  who  furnished  the 
materials  ?  Who  made  the  elements,  earth,  air,  fire,  and 
water  1  If  man  made  himself,  who  gave  him  the  bone, 
the  flesh,  the  blood,  or  the  substance  out  of  which  to 
shape  them  ?  Who  made  the  earth  on  which  we  stand, 
the  air  we  breathe,  and  the  sun  whose  light  we  share  ? 
We  can  only  answer  these  questions  by  referring  their 
existence  to  the  creative  power  of  God.  If  you  go  forth 
inquiring  of  the  several  objects  of  nature,  who  made  ye? 
—  each  blade  of  grass,  each  leaf  and  flower  and  tree, 
answers,  God !  the  insect,  the  reptile,  the  bird,  the 
quadruped,  answers,  God!  —  man  answers,  God!  in 
stinct  life  and  mind  answer,  God !  the  very  elements 
answer,  God!  the  mute  stone  answers,  God! 

15 


166  THESUSTAINER 

But  let  us  step  in  imagination  for  one  moment 
beyond  the  surface  of  this  earth,  and  contemplate  the 
solar  system.  With  this,  we  are  but  imperfectly  ac 
quainted,  but  we  know  the  magnitude  of  the  sun,  and 
of  the  several  planets  which  revolve  around  it.  We 
know  their  motions  and  their  several  velocities.  Let 
us  take  a  view  of  this  wonderful  mechanism. 

It  appears  that  our  earth  is  seven  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  eleven  miles  in  diameter,  and  therefore  it 
is  about  twenty-four  thousand  miles  around  it.  What 
an  inconceivable  bulk !  And  now  let  us  compare  the 
strength  of  man  with  that  of  God.  A  man  can  lift  a 
stone  half  as  large  as  his  own  body ;  but  God  can  lift 
this  earth,  with  all  its  stones  and  rocks  and  mountains 
and  rivers  and  seas  and  continents  !  He  can  do  more  — 
for  the  earth  turns  round  every  twenty-four  hours,  and 
as  it  is  twenty-four  thousand  miles  around  it,  every  tree 
and  house  and  man  and  animal  goes  with  it  at  the  rate  of 
one  thousand  miles  an  hour !  Nay,  this  world,  with  all 
its  lands  and  waters  and  inhabitants,  goes  round  the  sun 
once  a  year.  Its  distance  from  the  sun  is  ninety-five  mil 
lions  of  miles.  The  whole  distance  it  travels  in  a  year  is 
about  two  hundred  and  seventy  millions  of  miles.  This 
is  about  seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  miles  every 
day,  thirty-one  thousand  two  hundred  miles  every  hour, 
five  hundred  miles  every  minute,  eight  miles  every  time 
your  pulse  beats ! 

Man  then  can  lift  a  stone  half  as  large  as  his  body, 
but  God  lifts  a  world  twenty-four  thousand  miles  in  cir 
cumference;  nay,  more,  he  tosses  it  into  the  air,  and 
whirling  it  through  the  heavens,  it  goes  at  the  rate  of 


OFALLTHINGS.  167 

three  thousand  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  an  hour ! 
Nor  does  it  stop  in  its  progress.  Age  after  age  it  con 
tinues,  and  when  centuries  have  passed  away,  still  it 
pauses  not  in  its  flight ! 

But  what  shall  we  say  when  we  consider  that  the  sun 
is  as  large  as  three  hundred  and  thirty-seven  thousands 
of  our  worlds'?  that  Jupiter  is  as  large  as  one  thousand 
two  hundred  and  eighty-one  of  our  worlds?  that  Mer 
cury  flies  along  in  its  path  at  the  rate  of  almost  eighty 
miles  in  a  second  ?  and  that  Uranus  is  seventeen  times 
as  large  as  our  world,  one  billion  eight  hundred  millions 
of  miles  from  the  sun,  and  flies  along  at  the  rate  of  two 
hundred  and  forty  miles  every  minute ! 

Here  then  is  the  power  of  God !  A  world,  with  all 
its  mountains  and  oceans  and  kingdoms,  is  but  a  pebble 
in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty.  Our  solar  system  alone 
has  eleven  such  worlds,  beside  the  numerous  moons 
that  revolve  around  them,  and  beside  the  comets, 
those  strange,  mysterious,  wandering  worlds,  some  of 
whose  trains  are  forty  millions  of  miles  in  length,  and 
whose  velocity  outstrips  even  the  speed  of  the  swiftest 
planets. 

But  these  worlds  of  our  system  are  but  eleven  of  those 
thousand  stars  that  glitter  in  the  sky ;  and  far  beyond 
those  we  can  see,  is  an  endless  path,  familiar  to  the 
footsteps  of  God,  glittering  with  stars  whose  very  light 
has  not  yet  travelled  down  to  man.  And  these,  no 
doubt,  are  suns,  around  which  other  worlds  revolve ; 
and  He  who  made  the  insect  is  the  Maker  of  them  all ! 

Yes,  He  who  made  the  little  violet  of  the  valley,  made 
the  sun,  which  is  three  hundred  and  thirty-seven  thousand 


168  THE     S  U  S  T  A  I  N  E  R 

times  larger  than  our  earth.  He  who  made  the  butterfly 
that  dances  in  the  breeze,  made  thatplanet  Mercury, which 
flies  eighty  miles  upon  its  journey,  every  time  your  heart 
beats.  He  who  made  the  little  sparrow  that  nestles  in 
the  bush,  made  that  great  planet  Jupiter,  which  is  one 
thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty-one  times  as  large  as 
this  earth.  He  who  made  the  squirrel  leaping  from 
bough  to  bough,  made  the  comets  which  sweep  through 
the  heavens  with  fiery  trains,  millions  of  miles  in  length. 
He  who  made  man,  built  the  ocean  and  the  land,  and 
strewed  the  vault  of  heaven  with  stars,  as  the  sea  with 
pearls ! 

And  now  let  us  contemplate  these  things  as  all  the 
work  of  one  Being ;  and  let  us  consider  that  they  are  not 
only  made  by  Him,  but  that  every  moment  they  call 
upon  him  to  sustain  them.  Let  us  remember  that  God 
has  not  only  made  plants  and  animals,  but  that  if  not 
continued,  supported,  and  carried  forward  by  Him,  they 
would  instantly  perish;  let  us  remember  that  but  for 
Him  the  rivers  would  cease  to  flow,  the  air  would  be 
still,  the  planets  would  halt,  the  stars  would  be  quenched 
from  the  sky.  It  is  God  who  gives  to  all,  life  and  motion. 
Let  Him  take  his  power  from  them,  and  the  kingdoms 
of  nature  would  be  shrouded  with  everlasting  forgetful- 
ness. 

God,  then,  is  the  maker  and  sustainer  of  all  things. 
Let  us  consider  Him  as  such.  We  take  the  vegetable 
kingdom.  Every  leaf  and  stem  and  fibre  is  made  by 
him :  each  blade  of  grass  is  woven  by  his  fingers.  Day 
by  day,  hour  by  hour,  He  must  be  there  to  attend  to  the 
process  of  their  manufacture.  And  He  must  at  the  same 


OF     ALL     THINGS.  169 

moment  attend  to  every  blade  of  grass  throughout  the 
world,  in  the  same  way.  In  the  same  way,  He  must 
shape  every  leaf,  unfold  every  flower,  and  braid  every 
stalk  and  stem.  Think  of  the  myriads  of  plants  in  a 
single  field,  and  consider  that  God  is  attending  every 
moment  to  every  one  of  them,  and  not  to  them  only,  but 
to  all  others  that  are  in  the  universe !  To  each  of 
these  He  is  every  moment  giving  heat  and  light  and 
moisture,  and  to  each  of  these  He  is  attending,  more 
carefully  than  a  nurse  to  an  infant. 

Let  us  consider  the  insects.  There  are  forty  thou 
sand  species  of  these,  and  countless  myriads  of  each 
species.  The  air,  the  land,  the  very  depths  of  the  sea, 
are  filled  with  them,  and  the  Creator  must  attend  to 
each  one  of  them  every  moment.  Where  there  is  life 
and  motion,  there  must  He  be,  to  sustain  it.  There 
He  must  be  to  mould  the  eggs,  to  endow  them  with  life, 
to  frame  all  the  nice  mechanism  of  the  young,  and  to 
preserve  that  of  the  old.  And  besides,  they  must  all  be 
endowed  with  their  several  instincts.  Every  bee  must 
be  taught  the  wonderful  art  of  making  and  storing 
honey ;  every  ant  must  be  instructed  in  the  political 
economy  of  the  hill ;  each  spider  must  be  enabled  to 
spin  his  thread  of  four  thousand  strands. 

The  birds  of  the  air  claim  the  attention  of  their 
Maker.  He  must  construct  every  feather,  and  mark  it 
with  the  hues  of  its  kind ;  He  must  preside  over  the 
nice  machinery  of  every  wing  —  the  whole  internal 
structure  must  be  his.  Every  egg  must  derive  the 
principle  of  vitality  from  his  touch.  Think  of  the 
myriads  of  the  feathered  tribes,  that  are  scattered  over 


170  THE     SUSTAINER 

the  earth,  in  vale  and  meadow  and  mountain  and  marsh  : 
along  the  pebbly  shore  of  the  deep  —  upon  the  lonely 
seaward  isles  —  upon  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  —  and 
consider  that  every  wing  that  winnows  the  air,  every 
downy  breast  that  divides  the  wave,  must  call  upon  God 
every  moment  for  support.  Think,  too,  that  each  and 
all  of  them  are  to  be  supplied  by  Him  with  that  teach 
ing  which  alone  enables  them  to  support  existence,  or 
to  perpetuate  their  several  races ! 

And  the  myriad  fishes  of  the  sea  —  these  too  depend 
upon  God.  He  must  measure  and  fit  the  scales  of  the 
perch,  He  must  construct  the  delicate  bony  frame-work 
of  the  fins,  and  cover  them  over  with  their  silky  film. 
The  little  minnow  —  nay,  the  minute  eel  of  transparent 
water  —  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  only  to  be  dis 
cerned  by  a  microscope,  must  receive  from  God  every 
bone  and  muscle  and  nerve.  And  while  He  attends  to 
these,  He  is  called  upon  to  preside  over  the  whale,  to 
measure  out  the  beatings  of  its  heart,  and  impel  the 
cataract  of  blood  through  its  mighty  veins  and  arteries ! 

And  quadrupeds  too  depend  upon  God.  Every  one 
of  them  must  have  his  frame  built  by  the  divine  Archi 
tect  ;  every  one  of  them  calls  upon  God  for  his  devising 
skill,  his  creative  power,  his  sustaining  care ;  for  while 
He  watches  over  the  squirrel  of  our  forest,  He  must 
bestow  his  care  upon  the  elephant  and  rhinoceros  of  Asia 
and  Africa! 

And  man  too  calls  upon  God  every  moment,  for  his 
attention  and  care.  There  are  eight  hundred  millions 
of  people  in  the  world.  In  each  there  is  a  spine  of 
twenty-four  joints,  with  other  nice  machinery ;  in  each, 


OF     ALL     THINGS. 


171 


there  is  a  heart  and  veins  and  arteries;  in  each,  that 
heart  is  beating  at  the  rate  of  seventy  strokes  in  a  min 
ute  ;  in  each,  the  whole  blood  of  the  body  is  changed 
every  five  minutes ;  and  all  this  is  the  work  of  one  God  ! 
And  remember  that  while  every  blade  of  grass,  every 
insect,  every  fruit,  every  quadruped,  every  living  being 
throughout  the  universe,  is  receiving  the  care  of  the 
Almighty,  He  is  heaving  the  planets  along  in  their 
courses,  and  turning  the  mighty  crank  which  keeps  the 
whirling  spheres  in  motion.  Remember  too  that  in 
each  of  these  worlds  there  are  probably  races  of  beings 
like  those  on  our  earth,  claiming  the  care  of  their 
Creator ! 


LIFE. 

ON  May-day  morn,  the  tasselled  willow  swings 
In  golden  green  above  the  brimming  brook; 

But  soon  November's  gale  that  willow  wrings, 
And  to  their  bed  its  silken  robes  are  shook. 

A  few  brief  years  ago  Fitzroy  was  fair 

And  young  —  the  vanquisher  of  hearts  and  steel : 

See'st  thou  yon  gray,  old,  maundering  man?  He 's  there, 
Munching  in  toothless  age  his  vacant  meal ! 

Mark  him !  with  muttering  lip  and  tottering  tread, 
As  down  the  hill-side,  staff  in  hand,  he  goes ; 

With  idiot  instinct,  seeming  still  to  dread 

The  grave  he  seeks,  —  the  pillow  of  life's  woes! 

'T  is  thus  with  all  around ;  youth  yields  to  age, 
Age  bows  like  leaves  to  winter's  rushing  sweep,  — 

And  generations  pass  life's  hurried  stage, 
As  bubbles  rise  and  vanish  on  the  deep. 

Such  are  the  sad  monitions  of  our  state : 
Our  feet  are  set  upon  the  yielding  wave ; 

And  yet  we  build  of  adamant,  —  our  fate, 
To  sink,  with  all  our  castles,  in  the  grave. 


LIFE.  173 

The  day  is  but  an  inroad  on  the  night,  — 
Life  an  invasion  of  the  realms  of  death ; 

And  yet  \ve  count  on  both,  —  on  life  and  light, 
As  if  these  were  not  meteors  of  mere  breath. 

Time's  trembling  arch  with  giddy  foot  we  tread, 
Deaf  to  the  tide  that  speaks  below  in  foam  ; 

And  on  this  bridge  of  air  —  a  spider's  thread  — 
We  stay  our  hopes  and  seek  to  found  a  home ! 

Why  are  we  cheated  thus?     Alas !  the  Liar 

Of  Paradise  is  round  us  day  by  day, 
Making  the  false  seem  fair,  till  wrong  desire 

Fills  every  pulse,  and  willingly  we  stray. 

We  seek  the  high,  the  dazzling,  —  not  the  true; 

Invest  our  hopes,  our  wishes,  and  our  prayers 
In  earth's  poor  toys,  or  gold,  that  cheats  the  view, 

And  stays  behind  to  curse  our  grumbling  heirs. 

Life  is  a  journey,  and  its  fairest  flowers 

Lie  in  our  path  beneath  pride's  trampling  feet ; 

Oh,  let  us  stoop  to  virtue's  humble  bowers, 

And  gather  those,  which,  faded,  still  are  sweet. 

These  way-side  blossoms  amulets  are  of  price ;  — 
They  lead  to  pleasures,  yet  from  dangers  warn ; 

Turn  toil  to  bliss,  this  earth  to  Paradise, 
And  sunset  death  to  heaven's  eternal  morn. 


174  LIFE. 

A  good  deed  done  hath  memory's  blest  perfume,  — 
A  day  of  self-forgetfulness,  all  given 

To  holy  charity,  hath  perennial  bloom 

That  goes,  undrooping,  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Forgiveness,  too,  will  flourish  in  the  skies — 
Justice,  transplanted  thither,  yields  fair  fruit  ; 

And  if  repentance,  borne  to  heaven,  dies, 
'T  is  that  no  tears  are  there  to  wet  its  root. 


THE  PERSECUTED  EAGIE. 

UPON  a  certain  mountain  there  once  dwelt  an  eagle 
that  had  the  gift  of  foreseeing  and  predicting  the  weather 
for  some  days  before  it  came  to  pass.  Accustomed  to 
fly  far  above  the  clouds,  his  range  of  vision  was  vastly 
greater  than  that  of  the  jays  that  dwelt  in  the  valley,  or 
of  the  bitterns  that  muddled  in  the  swamps.  He  could 
see  the  tempest,  the  squall,  and  the  thunder  storm,  long 
before  others  perceived  them ;  and  being  in  the  habit 
of  imparting  his  knowledge  to  others,  he  was  of  the 
greatest  advantage  to  the  feathered  tribes  around.  He 
was  of  particular  use  to  those  that  dwelt  in  the  valley, 
and  who,  by  their  situation,  had  confined  views,  and  en 
joyed  fewer  advantages  for  knowledge,  than  others. 

Now  among  these  birds  were  a  number  of  crows, 
who  were  jealous  of  the  eagle,  because  he  was  so  much 
their  superior.  "  What  right,"  says  one  of  them,  "  has 
this  eagle  to  be  so  much  above  us?  "  "  Sure  enough  !  " 
says  another;  "  what  right  has  he  to  be  soaring  away 
up  in  the  clouds,  and  seeing  what  is  going  to  happen, 
long  before  it  comes  to  pass?"  "Ah,  ha,"  says  a 
third ;  "  and  he 's  as  proud  as  Lucifer  !  "  "  He 's  a  sor 
cerer,"  says  a  fourth.  "  Down  with  him  ! "  says  a  fifth. 

Having  worked  themselves  up  to  a  pitch  of  fury,  the 
crows  dispersed  among  the  other  birds  of  the  mountain 
and  the  valley,  and  began  to  excite  their  jealousy  against 
the  eagle.  Their  main  charge  was  that  he  was  proud, 


176  THE      PERSECUTED      EAGLE. 

and  this  took  wonderfully.  It  was  not  a  little  curious,  that 
the  lowland  birds,  to  whom  the  eagle  was  most  useful, 
became  the  most  excited  against  him.  In  a  short  time 
there  was  a  general  murmur  through  meadow  and  moun 
tain,  against  the  eagle,  as  an  aristocrat,  a  privileged  bird, 
and  the  cry  spread  far  and  wide,  "  down  with  him ! " 

Upon  this,  the  birds  of  every  degree  rose  upon  their 
wings,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  the  eagle.  They  found 
him  sitting  upon  a  rock,  and  immediately  they  prepared 
for  the  attack.  He  made  no  resistance,  for  his  heart 
was  broken,  to  find  that  his  philanthropy  was  miscon 
strued,  and  that  his  efforts  to  benefit  the  feathered  race 
had  only  excited  their  jealousy  and  resentment.  So  he 
patiently  received  their  gibes  and  jeers,  and  when  they 
fell  upon  him  with  blows,  he  laid  himself  down,  and 
submitted  to  his  fate.  There  was  a  great  strife  among 
the  more  ignoble  birds,  to  see  which  should  inflict  the 
deepest  wound  upon  the  eagle,  and  he  was  therefore  soon 
deprived  of  life. 

When  he  was  fairly  dead,  the  resentment  of  the  birds 
ceased,  and  they  began  to  consider  whether  they  had 
done  well  or  wisely.  "  After  all,"  says  one,  "  he  was 
a  fine  fellow  !  "  "  Indeed  he  was,"  says  another  ;  "  he 
was  the  great  benefactor  of  our  race."  "Yes,"  added 
a  third ;  "  he  was  an  ornament  to  the  feathered  family." 
"  He  was  inspired,"  says  a  fourth.  "  He  was  a  god," 
says  a  fifth.  "Let  us  worship  him,"  says  a  sixth;  and 
so  the  birds  bowed  their  heads,  and  paid  homage  to 
the  dead  carcass  of  the  eagle,  after  they  had  themselves 
quenched  the  spirit  that  animated  it ! 


THE  MONKEYS'  PETITION. 

IN  ancient  times,  when  foxes  were  lawyers  and  mon 
keys  were  physicians,  a  deputation  of  the  latter  ap 
peared  before  Jove,  and  begged  an  opportunity  to  lay  a 
petition  at  his  feet.  This  was  graciously  granted,  and 
the  chairman  of  the  deputation  addressed  the  King  of 
gods  and  men,  in  substance,  as  follows  : 

"  Whereas,  if  it  please  your  gracious  majesty,  the 
foxes  being  the  lawyers  of  the  animal  tribes,  and  we 
the  monkeys,  being  the  physicians,  we  have  to  complain 
of  great  inequality  and  injustice.  The  foxes  have  the 
making  of  the  laws,  and  are  therefore  able  to  contrive 
them  in  such  a  manner  as  to  profit  by  them,  in  a  very 
high  degree.  In  the  first  place  they  have  them  expres 
sed  in  blind  language,  using  many  hard  words,  which 
are  only  understood  by  themselves ;  they  also  make  them 
very  complicated,  so  that  few,  beside  the  profession,  are 
able  to  interpret  them.  Thus  the  laws  are  difficult  to  be 
understood,  and  every  question  that  arises  is  not  only  of 
doubtful  issue,  but  no  one  can  manage  cases  which  arise, 
but  the  lawyers  themselves.  Now,  all  this  is  arranged 
by  the  shrewd  foxes,  so  that  their  business  may  thrive. 
The  blindness  of  the  law  occasions  many  lawsuits,  and 
so  well  do  the  lawyers  understand  this,  that  they  have 
an  exulting  proverb,  which  speaks  of  the  "  glorious  un- 

16 


178  THE    MONKEYS'    PETITION. 

certainty  of  the  law ;  "  a  thing,  which  at  once  proves  the 
facts  we  state,  and  gives  them  their  true  interpretation. 
Thus  their  business  is  kept  up,  and  as  they  make  the 
laws  which  regulate  their  own  fees,  they  extort  vast 
sums  from  the  people,  and  become  rich,  respectable,  and 
powerful.  The  law  which  rules,  fashions,  and  moulds 
society,  is  actually  put  into  their  hands;  it  is  their  in 
strument  ;  and  as  they  wield  it  for  their  own  purposes, 
they  become  the  masters  of  the  people.  Thus,  slily, 
but  effectually,  do  they  govern.  They  are,  in  short,  a 
privileged  class,  enjoying  powers  and  immunities,  which 
even  legitimate  princes,  who  pretend  to  rule  by  divine 
right,  may  hardly  claim  or  exercise. 

"  Now,  we  physicians,  may  it  please  your  most  gra 
cious  worship,  wish,  as  far  as  may  be,  to  be  put  on  a 
footing  with  the  foxes  —  the  lawyers.  As  they  make 
the  laws,  out  of  which  they  are  to  get  a  living,  we  wish 
to  make  the  diseases  out  of  which  we  are  to  get  a  living. 
As  the  foxes,  or  lawyers,  are  permitted  to  infuse  into 
the  body  politic  just  what  diseases  may  make  their  pro 
fession  flourish,  we  wish  to  be  empowered  to  put  what 
diseases  we  please  into  the  natural  body,  so  as  to 
make  our  profession  flourish.  Beside  this,  having  made 
what  diseases  we  please,  we  wish,  like  the  foxes,  to  have 
the  privilege  of  fixing  our  own  fees,  for  curing  these  dis 
eases.  In  short,  we  wish  to  be  put  on  an  equality  with 
the  lawyers.  This  is  our  petition,  most  exalted  Jove, 
and  for  this  we  shall  ever  pray !  " 

"  I  have  heard  your  prayer,"  said  Jove;  "  but  I  wish 
to  point  out  a  difference  in  the  two  cases,  which  you 
present  to  my  consideration.  The  natural  body  is  my 


THE    MONKEYS'    PETITION. 


179 


work,  and  I  can  permit  no  one  to  interfere  with  that ;  but 
laws  are  the  work  of  society  —  of  the  people.  If  they 
are  so  soft  as  to  employ  the  foxes,  the  lawyers,  to  make 
the  laws ;  if  they  intrust  power  to  a  certain  profession, 
and  make  it  the  interest  of  that  profession  to  cheat 
their  employers,  let  the  people  who  act  thus  reap  the 
consequences.  I  have  made  my  creatures  free,  but  I 
have  given  them  the  light  of  reason  to  guide  their  foot 
steps.  If  they  blow  out  this  light,  they  must  not  com 
plain  when  they  get  lost  amid  the  labyrinths  of  delusion, 
or  injure  themselves  by  falling  over  precipices. 

"  I  have  seen  the  evil  of  which  you  complain,  but  re 
commend  you  to  keep  quiet,  for  the  human  race  act  in 
this  matter,  much  in  the  same  way  as  you  say  the  brute 
creation  do ;  particularly  when  the  people  undertake  to 
govern  themselves.  They  always  call  upon  the  lawyers 
to  make  their  laws,  and  thus  these  become  the  managers, 
wire-pullers,  and  masters  of  society.  Their  tyranny 
would  be  intolerable,  but  that  it  is  invisible.  The  law 
yers  not  only  control  the  legislature,  and  thus  make 
the  laws  to  answer  their  own  purposes,  but  they  make 
themselves  justices  of  the  peace ;  they  occupy  all  the 
benches  of  justice  ;  they  fill  nearly  all  the  high  and  pro 
fitable  stations  in  society ;  at  the  same  time,  the  profes 
sion  are  cemented  together  by  a  feeling  that  they  have 
a  common  interest,  which  is  adverse  to  the  commu 
nity.  Thus  acting  unitedly,  they  become  irresistible. 
The  people  dare  not  attack  them,  and  the  press  itself 
is  rather  their  tool,  than  their  judge.  There  is  no 
despot  in  any  land,  whose  power  is  more  complete  or 
secure,  and  whose  tyranny  is  more  pervading,  than  that 


180  THE   MONKEYS'   PETITION. 

of  the  profession  of  the  law,  among  certain  portions  of 
mankind.  They  not  only  make  the  laws  but  administer 
them ;  they  embody  in  themselves  the  legislature,  the 
judiciary,  and  the  executive,  thus  absorbing  the  three 
great  powers  of  government.  I  trust,  therefore,  that  you 
monkeys  will  rest  satisfied,  seeing  that  you  have  so  good 
authority  for  submitting  to  craftiness  and  tyranny,  in  the 
conduct  of  the  lords  of  creation ;  and  especially  among 
those  wise  nations  who  fancy  that  they  are  free,  merely 
because  their  fetters  are  forged  by  themselves." 


THE   GIPSIES'   PRAYER. 

OUR  altar  is  the  dewy  sod, 
Our  temple,  yon  blue  Throne  of  God  ; 
No  priestly  rite  our  souls  to  bind, 
We  bow  before  the  Almighty  Mind ! 

Father  —  thy  realm  is  wide  as  air  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  spurn  the  gipsies'  prayer  — 
Though  banned  and  barred  by  all  beside, 
Be  thou  the  Outcasts'  guard  and  guide. 

Poor  fragments  of  a  nation  wrecked, 
Its  story  whelmed  in  time's  neglect, 
We  drift  unheeded  on  the  wave, 
If  God  refuse  the  lost  to  save. 

Yet  though  we  name  no  father-land, 
And  though  we  clasp  no  kindred  hand  — 
Though  houseless,  homeless  wanderers  we, 
Oh  !  give  us  hope  of  Heaven  with  thee  ! 


16* 


THE   SENSES. 

THE  eye  is  but  a  grated  pane, 

Through  which  the  clay-imprisoned  soul 
Looks  dimly  forth  on  earth  and  sky  — 

Yet  deeming  all  a  heaven-writ  scroll. 

We  gaze  and  gaze,  and  sometimes  dream 
That  these  may  satisfy  the  heart  ; 

But,  lo !  an  after  longing  comes, 

Which  makes  the  cheated  dreamer  start. 

We  feel  that  these  are  signs  —  not  things  — 

Prophetic  visions  cast  before  ; 
And  yearning  fancy  turns  to  faith, 

Making  us  sure  of  something  more. 

The  ear  doth  catch  sweet  tones  around 
From  woman's  tongue  and  Eol's  choir ; 

Yet  this  earth-music  is  but  one 

Sweet,  stolen  string  from  heaven's  lyre. 

And  this  is  whispered  to  the  heart ; 

For,  though  the  raptured  sense  be  blest 
With  song — a 'yearning  wish  will  rise 

For  something  still  to  Jill  the  breast. 


THE     SENSES 


183 


The  rose  regales,  yet  seems  to  cheat, 

Not  satisfy,  the  sense  it  woos; 
The  jaded  palate  turns  away 

From  that  which  first  it  seemed  to  choose. 

The  nerve  with  sweet  sensation  thrills ; 

Yet  languor  comes  to  claim  its  turn, 
And  leaves  the  sickened  soul  within, 

For  something  better  still  to  yearn. 

Thus  every  sense  exalts  the  soul, — 
Bestows  a  transient  draught  of  bliss, 

Then  breaks  the  cup,  to  make  us  thirst 
For  surer,  purer  joys  than  this. 

They  lift  us  to  the  mountain  top, 

Where  earth  and  heaven  in  contrast  lie, 

And  bid  us  spurn  this  lower  sphere, 
And  spread  the  wing  for  yonder  sky ! 


V  J 

f 


INDUSTRY  AND  INDOLENCE.* 

IT  is  now  about  two  centuries,  since  the  little  plain 
upon  which  we  live,  was  discovered  and  settled  by  our 
English  ancestors.  Within  this  long  period,  it  has  never, 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  trace  its  history,  been  the 
theatre  of  any  great  crime,  or  the  scene  of  any  great 
calamity.  It  has  been  marked,  in  a  singular  degree, 
by  peace  and  gradual  prosperity.  As  none  of  its  inhab 
itants  have  been  excessively  rich,  so  few  have  been  very 
poor.  The  gifts  of  Providence,  or  the  bounties  of  for 
tune,  have  been  scattered  with  an  equalizing  hand :  and 
the  result  has  been,  an  equality  of  condition,  and  a  com 
munity  of  feeling,  to  be  met  with,  to  the  same  extent, 
in  no  other  place  within  my  knowledge.  The  rich  man 
here,  asks  no  consideration  which  all  do  not  accord ; 
and  the  poor,  if  there  are  any  such  among  us,  are  never 
denied  that  charity  which  their  condition  demands, 
The  truth  is,  that  all,  or  nearly  all,  are  independent  — 
alike  free  from  the  fear  of  want,  and  safe  from  the  temp 
tations  of  undue  riches.  And  hence  it  is  a  fact,  that 
the  envy,  strife,  and  malice,  which  wrestle  in  the  bosoms 

*  From  an  Address  delivered  at  Jamaica  Plain,  July  4,  1835. 


INDUSTRY      AND      INDOLENCE.  185 

of  other  societies,  have  no  dwelling-place  here  —  or,  if 
they  live  among  us,  their  voice  is  not  heard,  and  their 
power  is  not  felt. 

Our  community,  then,  may  be  compared  to  a  single 
family,  the  members  of  which  are  not  divided  by  those 
palpable  barriers  of  poverty  and  wealth,  which  separate 
other  communities  into  distinct  castes.  The  ques 
tions  with  us  are  not,  is  a  man  rich,  or  is  he  poor  1  — 
but,  rather,  is  he  honest?  is  he  a  lover  of  truth?  is 
he  a  promoter  of  peace  ?  is  he  a  good  citizen,  a  kind 
and  faithful  neighbor?  Is  a  man  possessed  of  these 
characteristics  —  then  is  he  truly  honored,  and  not 
otherwise. 

This  I  conceive  to  be  a  fair  delineation  of,  at  least, 
one  prominent  feature  in  our  little  community  of  Ja 
maica  Plain.  It  is,  that  the  condition  of  its  inhabitants 
is  marked  with  singular  equality —  alike  removed  from 
suffering  poverty  and  pampering  wealth.  And,  con 
nected  with  this  condition,  and  partly  flowing  from  it, 
is  the  custom  of  looking  at  every  member  of  society 
according  to  his  character,  and  not  according  to  his 
circumstances.  I  do  not  mean  that  the  people  are  in 
sensible  to  the  advantages  of  wealth,  or  the  evils  of 
poverty  ;  but  it  is  not  the  house  a  man  lives  in  —  it  is 
not  the  dress  he  wears,  that  forms  with  us,  a  reputation. 
These  outside  circumstances,  husks  to  the  kernel  with 
in,  are  cast  away  and  rejected,  when  the  inner  man  is 
to  be  examined.  It  is  the  naked  mind  and  heart  that 
are  studied,  as  forming  the  real  man.  Nor  is  this  true  of 
the  present  race  alone;  it  was  also  true  of  those  fathers 
of  the  land,  who  sleep  in  their  quiet  graves.  If  you  look 


186      INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE. 

into  their  place  of  rest,  and  learn  their  history,  you  will 
find  that  the  honored  dead  are  but  the  prototypes  of  the 
honored  living. 

Let  us,  in  seeking  out  the  causes  which  have  made 
this  people  what  they  are,  go  back  to  the  first  settlement 
of  this  village,  and  briefly  note  the  progress  of  events. 
The  town  of  Roxbury  was  settled  in  1630 ;  the  same 
year  that  Boston  was  settled.  The  neighboring  coun 
try  was  doubtless  soon  explored.  Let  us,  in  imagina 
tion,  accompany  the  grave  pilgrim,  who  first  visited  the 
place  where  Jamaica  Plain  now  stands.  This  beautiful 
level  was  no  doubt  originally  covered  with  lofty  pine 
trees.  The  hills  around  were  mantled  with  the  oak, 
the  chestnut,  the  beach,  and  the  maple.  Let  us  go  with 
the  pilgrim  in  his  march  through  these  woods.  Re 
member  that  he  has  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  a  knife  in 
his  belt ;  for  the  bear  and  the  wolf  are  now  lords  of  the 
forest. 

With  what  delight  must  he  have  surveyed  this  valley, 
as  he  first  viewed  it  from  the  hills  —  with  what  trans 
port  must  he  have  looked,  for  the  first  time,  upon  the 
waters  of  our  little  lake !  What  must  have  been  his 
emotions,  when,  stooping  to  drink  from  its  margin,  that 
mirror  reflected  a  white  man's  face  for  the  first  time 
since  the  Creator  poured  it  into  its  hollow  bed,  saying, 
"  Here  shall  thy  waves  be  stayed." 

Our  pilgrim  fathers  were  lovers  of  God  —  they  were, 
therefore,  lovers  of  nature.  The  ancient  Greek,  who 
heard  the  footsteps  of  a  Dryad  in  the  rustling  leaves,  or 
the  voice  of  a  nymph  in  the  sighing  winds,  was  even  less 
poetical  than  the  Puritan ;  for,  while  the  imagination  of 


INDUSTRY      AND      INDOLENCE.  187 

the  former  filled  the  forest  with  substantial  forms,  the 
latter  saw  in  every  thing  around,  as  in  the  fragments  of 
a  mirror,  reflections  of  a  more  glorious  Image.  I  need 
not  tell  you,  then,  how  his  bosom  swelled,  as  the  wan 
derer  looked  over  the  crystal  water —  a  glass  set  in  the 
wilderness,  to  reflect  the  face  of  Heaven,  and  beauti 
fully  fitted  to  so  holy  a  use. 

With  a  heart  strung  to  religious  emotion,  and  a  spirit 
of  devotion,  which  appropriated  every  thing  to  a  reli 
gious  use,  all  nature  was  full  of  music  and  meaning  — 
the  wind  and  the  wave  spoke,  and  to  him  they  ever 
spoke  in  the  beautiful  language  of  scripture.  Could 
the  pilgrim  fail,  then,  as  he  mused  over  the  discovered 
lake,  to  think  of  the  worship  which  had  ascended  for 
ages  from  these  waves,  sometimes  as  the  gust  swept  by, 
"clapping  their  hands"  in  joy,  and  again  giving  back 
the  image  of  Heaven,  as  the  Spirit  whispered,  "  peace, 
be  still  1 "  Under  the  influence  of  such  thoughts,  could 
he  hesitate?  No.  Here,  says  he,  shall  be  my  resting 
place  —  here  will  I  make  my  tabernacle.  Sheltered  by 
these  hills  —  fed  by  this  fertile  soil  —  inspired  by  these 
crystal  waters,  I  will  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  ; 
and  when  my  work  is  done,  these  sands  shall  furnish  a 
pillow  for  my  final  rest. 

And  now  what  are  the  first  steps  of  the  settler  ?  To 
cut  down  the  trees  —  to  build  a  house  —  to  clear  the 
land  —  to  plant  and  sow.  And  when  this  is  done,  what 
is  his  situation  ?  His  soil  is  well  adapted  to  the  culti 
vation  of  all  those  plants  which  give  nutriment  to  man. 
Near  by  is  the  growing  mart  of  Boston.  The  inhabi 
tants  there  being  engaged  in  commerce,  are  glad  to  pur- 


188     INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE. 

chase  his  corn,  his  wheat,  his  fruit,  and  his  vegetables. 
His  course  is  now  clear.  Husbandry  and  horticulture 
become  his  employments.  He  has  neighbors  —  these 
are  their  employments  also.  The  village  thrives  —  the 
forest  falls  around  —  society  grows  up  —  and  Jamaica 
Plain,  a  century  ago,  was  the  germ  of  what  it  is  now. 
The  people  were  farmers  and  gardeners,  like  their  de 
scendants,  and  drew  their  wealth,  in  the  same  way,  from 
the  sale  of  their  products  to  the  people  of  Boston. 

I  think  we  can  see,  in  this  slight  sketch,  the  main 
causes  of  that  character  which  I  have  attributed  to  the 
inhabitants  of  this  village.  Circumstances  early  in 
duced  a  life  of  industry.  They  could  not  get  rich  in  a 
day,  by  the  rise  of  stocks,  or  the  success  of  a  voyage. 
No ;  they  must  toil  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  through  the 
year.  Toil,  then,  became  their  destiny ;  but  was  it  not 
a  happy  destiny  ?  When  the  sentence  was  pronounced 
upon  the  exiled  inhabitants  of  Eden,  tlwu  shalt  eat 
thy  bread  with  the  sweat  of  thy  brow,  there  seems  to 
have  been  relenting  grace  in  the  very  malediction. 

When  man  from  Paradise  was  driven, 
And  thorns  around  his  pathway  sprung, 

Sweet  Mercy,  wandering  there  from  heaven, 
Upon  those  thorns  bright  roses  flung. 

Ay,  and  as  Justice  cursed  the  ground, 
She  stole  behind,  unheard,  unseen, 

And,  as  the  curses  fell  around, 
She  scattered  seeds  of  joy  between. 

And  when  the  evils  sprung  to  light, 
And  spread  like  weeds  their  poison  wide, 

Fresh  healing  plants  came  blooming  bright, 


INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE.      189 

And  stood,  to  check  them,  side  by  side. 

And  now,  though  Eden  blooms  afar, 
And  man  is  exiled  from  its  bowers, 

Still  Mercy  steals  through  bolt  and  bar, 
And  brings  away  its  choicest  flowers. 

The  very  toil,  the  thorns  of  care, 
Which  Heaven  in  wrath  for  sin  imposes, 

By  Mercy  changed,  no  curses  are  — 
One  brings  us  rest  —  the  other,  roses. 

Toil,  then  —  bodily  toil  —  is  no  curse;  it  is  a  bles 
sing.  It  is  alike  salutary  to  the  body  and  the  soul.  It 
is  ordained  of  Heaven,  as  giving  vigor  to  one,  and 
wholesome  discipline  to  the  other.  Let  no  man  spurn 
it;  let  no  man  deem  himself  degraded  by  it;  let  no 
man  feel  elevated,  by  being  placed  in  a  situation  which 
does  not  require  it.  No  one  is  injured  by  toil  —  but 
thousands  perish,  and  tens  of  thousands  drag  out  lives 
of  misery,  for  the  want  of  it.  Some  of  the  greatest 
and  best  men  who  have  lived,  were  men  of  toil.  Wash 
ington  was  a  farmer — Greene,  a  blacksmith — and 
Sherman,  a  shoemaker.  The  fathers  of  this  village 
were  men  of  toil  —  they  practised  it  habitually  —  and 
industry  became  with  them  a  prominent  virtue. 

If  industry  be  a  homely  virtue,  still,  is  it  not  worthy  of 
all  praise  ?  Experience,  religion,  philosophy,  alike  incul 
cate  it.  Even  nature  herself  reads  us  a  frequent  lec 
ture  upon  it.  Let  us  go,  for  a  moment,  from  the  haunts 
of  men,  to  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  forest.  Here  we 
shall  find  no  droning  sound  of  the  mill,  the  hammer,  or 
the  saw.  It  is  silent ;  but  look  around,  and  see  what 
has  been  done,  by  the  busy,  though  noiseless  hand  of 
nature.  See  the  rock — how  artfully  it  is  woven  over 

17 


190      INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE. 

with  moss,  as  if  to  hide  its  roughness ;  and  how  is  an 
object,  of  itself  uninteresting,  thus  rendered  beautiful  ? 
Look  at  the  rugged  banks  of  the  brawling  stream !  See 
the  tufts  of  grass,  the  spreading  shrubs,  and  gaudy  wild 
flowers  that  cover  it,  and  thus  turn  into  beauty  the  very 
deformity  of  the  wilderness !  Look  down  upon  the  val 
ley,  and  see  how  the  withered  leaves,  the  mouldering 
branches  of  trees,  the  scattered  stems,  and  other  ob 
jects,  witnesses  of  decay  and  death,  are  carpeted  over 
by  grasses  and  flowers  !  How  beautiful,  how  ornamen 
tal,  are  the  works  of  Nature,  even  in  the  wilderness  and 
the  solitary  place !  She  seems  to  decorate  them  all,  as 
if  each  spot  were  a  garden,  in  which  God  might  per 
chance  walk,  as  once  in  Eden ;  and  she  would  have  it 
fitly  arrayed  for  his  inspection. 

And  shall  not  man  learn  a  homely  lesson  from  this 
lecture  in  the  woods?  Will  you  look  at  Nature,  and 
see  her,  with  industrious  fingers,  weaving  flowers  and 
plants,  and  grasses,  and  trees,  and  shrubs,  to  ornament 
every  part  of  the  earth,  and  will  you  go  home,  no  wiser 
for  the  hint?  Will  you  go  home  —  to  that  dear  spot 
upon  which  the  heart  should  shine,  as  the  cheering  sun 
in  spring-time  upon  the  flowers  —  and  permit  it  to  be 
the  scene  of  idleness,  negligence  and  waste  ?  Will  you 
permit  it  to  be  a  naked  shelter  from  the  weather,  like  the 
den  of  a  wild  beast  ?  Will  you  not  rather  adorn  it  by  your 
industry,  as  Nature  adorns  the  field  and  the  forest  ? 

If  it  be  said  that  this  is  somewhat  fanciful,  and  should 
be  regarded  rather  as  illustration  than  argument,  —  let 
it  be  admitted.  Still,  are  not  the  works  of  Nature  de 
signed  to  have  an  influence  of  this  kind  upon  us  ?  Why 


INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE.      191 

do  we  feel  their  beauty,  and  carry  their  images  in  our 
bosoms,  but  as  a  language  in  which  our  Creator  would 
speak  to  us,  move  us,  educate  us?  If  the  trembling 
string  that  is  set  in  the  wind,  yields  melody  to  the  ear, 
shall  we  not  listen  to  it?  And  if  Nature  would  thus 
become  a  monitor,  shall  we  not  learn  of  her  ?  If  she  sets 
before  us  an  example,  shall  we  not  follow  it?  If  she 
beautifies  the  dell,  the  vale,  the  slope,  the  hill  —  cover 
ing  up  whatever  may  offend,  and  displaying  in  rich  col 
ors  and  beautiful  forms  her  fairy  designs  of  leaves  and 
flowers  —  shall  we  not  imitate  her  ? 

It  seems  to  me  no  violent  stretch  of  faith,  to  deem  all 
this  as  meant  for  practical  teaching  to  man.  Nature  is 
industrious  in  adorning  her  dominions ;  and  man,  to 
whom  this  beauty  is  addressed,  should  feel  and  obey  the 
lesson.  Let  him,  too,  be  industrious,  in  adorning  his 
domain  —  in  making  his  home  —  the  dwelling  of  his 
wife  and  children — not  only  convenient  and  comfort 
able,  but  pleasant.  Let  him,  as  far  as  circumstances 
will  permit,  be  industrious  in  surrounding  it  with  plea 
sing  objects  —  in  decorating  it,  within  and  without, 
with  things  that  tend  to  make  it  agreeable  and  attrac 
tive.  Let  industry  make  home  the  abode  of  neatness 
and  order  —  a  place  which  brings  satisfaction  to  every 
inmate,  and  which  in  absence  draws  back  the  heart,  by 
the  fond  associations  of  comfort  and  content.  Let  this 
be  done,  and  this  sacred  spot  will  become  more  surely 
the  scene  of  cheerfulness,  kindness,  and  peace. 

The  excellence  of  industry  may  be  illustrated  by  con 
trasting  it  with  indolence.  There  is  no  person  more 
truly  unhappy,  than  one  who  is  given  up  to  idleness. 


192      INDUSTRY   AND   INDOLENCE. 

Whether  rich  or  poor,  he  is  a  wretch  who  is  wedded  to 
it.  It  was  the  design  of  Him  who  made  us,  that 
we  should  be  active,  and  he  has  always  laid  happiness 
in  the  paths  of  effort  and  exertion.  He,  then,  who 
travels  in  the  ways  of  indolence  in  search  of  happiness, 
always  misses  it.  He  is  like  a  lazy  fellow,  whom  I 
once  knew,  who  sat  waiting  at  a  woodchuck's  burrow  a 
whole  day,  expecting  the  animal  to  come  out  and  be 
caught ;  but  the  brute  was  the  wiser  of  the  two,  and 
went  out  by  another  way. 

Indolence  by  indulgence,  may  at  last  become  a  dis 
ease.  A  man  dressed  in  rags,  haggard,  and  marked 
with  misery,  once  approached  a  rich  man,  and  begged 
for  a  few  pence.  "  But  why  do  you  beg?"  said  the 
rich  man.  "I  am  afflicted  with  a  disease,"  said  the 
beggar,  "  and  shame  prevents  my  naming  it  to  you." 
"  Let  us  step  aside,"  said  the  rich  man,  "  and  tell  me 
your  disease ;  if  it  is  in  my  power,  I  will  relieve  you." 
They  stepped  aside,  and  the  pauper  opened  his  robe. 
But  the  rich  man  could  discover  no  evidence  of  disease. 
"  Listen,"  said  the  beggar.  "  My  disease  does  not 
show  itself  on  the  skin  —  it  lurks  in  my  bones  —  it  in 
fects  my  blood  —  it  reigns  over  my  nerves  and  sinews 
—  it  restrains  my  efforts  —  it  paralyzes  my  body  and 
mind  —  it  makes  me  weak,  imbecile,  useless  —  it  renders 
me  a  wretch — it  makes  me  what  you  see  me,  a  beggar ! " 
"  What  is  this  horrid  disease  1 "  said  the  rich  man.  "  It 
is  INDOLENCE  !  "  said  the  pauper. 

And  thus,  while  indolence  brings  disease  and  misery, 
industry  brings  health.  "  I  pray  you,"  said  a  poor  man 
who  was  starving,  to  one  who  was  fat  and  bloated  with 


INDUSTRY      AND      INDOLENCE.  193 

indulgence ;  "  I  pray  you  give  me  some  bread,  for  my 
hunger  is  past  endurance."  "  I  would  give  all  my 
wealth,"  said  the  voluptuary,  "  for  your  good  appetite." 
The  beggar,  then,  has  the  advantage  of  a  man  who,  in 
the  midst  of  abundance,  has  lost  the  power  of  enjoying 
it.  And  the  idle  man  loses  this  power,  while  the  in 
dustrious  have  their  perceptions  quickened  and  their 
capacities  enlarged  by  their  course  of  life. 

From  what  I  have  said,  it  seems  a  plain  inference, 
that  to  be  industrious,  is  the  duty  of  every  man  ;  it  is 
his  duty,  alike  flowing  from  his  obligations  to  society 
and  himself.  No  degree  of  wealth,  no  love  of  pleas 
ure,  no  distaste  for  exertion ;  nothing  but  physical  inca 
pacity,  can  confer  on  any  man  the  right  to  lead  an  idle 
life.  Each  individual  has  some  gifts,  and  he  is  bound 
to  use  them  wisely  for  himself  and  for  mankind.  In 
these  remarks,  I  have  a  primary  reference  to  industry 
of  the  hands.  I  do  not  insist,  however,  that  every  one 
shall  practice  this  species  of  industry ;  for  intellectual 
activity  may  produce  the  greatest  benefits  to  society,  and 
bring  happiness  to  him  who  uses  it.  Mental  labor  may, 
as  it  regards  its  general  effects,  be  considered  of  a  higher 
nature  than  bodily  labor.  But  I  believe  no  man  can  be 
happy  without  some  habitual  bodily  toil ;  and,  surely,  if 
I  were  to  choose  a  plan  of  like,  most  likely  to  insure  a 
balance  of  happiness,  in  the  summing  up  of  life,  it  would 
be  among  those  who  labor  with  their  hands  as  a  voca 
tion.  If  envy  could,  for  once,  have  her  eyes  freed  from 
the  scales  of  prejudice,  she  would  not  teach  us  to  desire 
the  high  places  of  those  who  labor  not;  but  she  would 


17* 


194      INDUSTRY  AND  INDOLENCE. 

choose,  as  most  desirable,  a  condition  among  the  intel 
ligent  and  industrious  farmers  and  mechanics. 

Of  all  the  delusions,  with  which  man  has  been  accus 
tomed  to  cheat  himself,  the  idea  that  freedom  from 
labor  confers  bliss,  is  the  most  fallacious.  To  live  with 
out  work,  is  the  halcyon,  but  deceptive  dream  of  mil 
lions.  It  has  inspired  many  a  man  to  put  forth  painful 
efforts ;  but  when  the  bubble  is  caught,  it  vanishes  into 
thin  air.  Go  to  our  cities,  and  ask  those  who  are  looked 
upon  as  the  successful  men  in  life ;  those  who  have  risen 
to  wealth  by  their  own  exertions;  ask  them,  which  is 
the  best  part  of  life  —  that  of  effort,  or  that  of  luxurious 
relaxation.  They  will  all  tell  you,  that  the  era  of  happi 
ness,  to  which  they  look  back  with  delight,  is  the  hum 
ble  period  of  industrious  labor.  They  will  tell  you,  that 
the  remembrance  of  those  days  of  small  things,  dimmed, 
as  it  might  seem,  by  doubts  and  difficulties,  is  better 
than  all  their  shining  wealth.  How  idle,  then,  is  that 
sour  dissatisfaction,  with  which  some  persons  look  upon 
their  lot,  because  it  involves  the  duty  and  necessity  of 
habitual  industry  !  How  unjust  that  poisonous  envy, 
with  which  the  laborer  sometimes  regards  the  other 
classes  of  society !  Let  us  rest  assured,  that  those  who 
occupy  what  are  called,  often  falsely,  the  higher  stations 
in  life,  pay  dearly  for  their  giddy  elevation.  The  rich 
have  sorrows,  which  the  poor  know  not  of:  there  is 
often  a  bitter  drug  in  the  golden  cup,  which  is  never 
tasted  in  the  glass  of  humbler  life.  Let  us  think  better 
of  the  ways  of  Providence ;  with  hearts  free  from  vex 
ing  envy,  and  embittering  discontent,  let  us  accept  and 
follow  the  advice  of  the  homely  poet : 


INDUSTRY     AND     INDOLENCE. 

"  Industrious  be  your  lives  — 

Alike  employed  yourselves  and  wives  — 

Your  children,  joined  in  labor  gay, 

With  something  useful  fill  each  day. 

Those  little  times  of  leisure  save, 

Which  most  men  lose,  and  all  men  have  — 

The  half  days  when  a  job  is  done  — 

The  whole  days  when  a  storm  is  on. 

Few  know,  without  a  strict  account, 

To  what  these  little  times  amount. 

Nor  think  a  life  of  toil  severe  — 

No  life  has  blessings  so  sincere  — 

Its  meals  so  luscious  —  sleep  so  sweet  — 

Such  vigorous  limbs  —  and  health  complete. 

No  mind  so  active,  brisk,  and  gay, 

As  his  who  toils  the  livelong  day. 

A  life  of  sloth  drags  slowly  on, 

Suns  set  too  late,  and  rise  too  soon  — 

Youth,  manhood,  age,  all  linger  slow, 

To  him  who  nothing  has  to  do. 

The  drone,  a  nuisance  to  the  hive, 

Stays,  but  can  scarce  be  said  to  live  — 

And  well  the  bees,  those  judges  wise, 

Plague,  chase,  and  sting  him,  till  he  dies." 


195 


THE  THREE   CLASSES  OF   SOCIETY. 

SOCIETY  is  often  spoken  of,  as  divided  into  three 
castes  —  the  high,  the  low,  and  the  middling.  These 
terms,  I  am  persuaded,  often  bear  a  false  signification, 
and  are  the  foundation  of  infinite  mischief.  Wealth 
exerts  a  magical  influence  over  the  imagination;  and 
those  who  possess  it,  are  honored  with  an  epithet 
which  implies  an  enviable  superiority  of  condition  to 
the  rest  of  mankind.  But  this  is  mere  assumption,  and 
that,  too,  in  the  face  of  fact  and  reason.  Wealth  is 
not  happiness  —  it  is  a  mere  instrument  —  and  often 
fails  to  accomplish  the  end  for  which  it  is  designed.  In 
the  hands  of  one  who  knows  how  to  use  it,  and  has  that 
stern  self-control  which  enables  him  to  act  according 
to  knowledge,  wealth  is  a  blessing.  But  there  are  few 
men  of  this  character.  Most  possessors  of  wealth  are 
seduced  by  its  blandishments  from  the  straight  and 
narrow  way  of  peace ;  and  that  which  Heaven  gave 
for  good,  frequently  becomes  the  instrument  of  evil. 

This  classification  of  society,  then,  which  assigns 
the  first  and  highest  place  to  the  rich,  is  founded  upon 
what  might  be,  and  not  upon  what  is.  The  rich  are  not  the 
happiest  portion  of  mankind ;  for  wealth  is  a  two-edged 
sword,  and  too  often  wounds  the  hand  that  wields  it. 
The  only  just  sense  in  which  the  rich  man  can  be  said  to  be 
above  his  humbler  neighbor,  is,  that  he  occupies  a  station 


THE     THREE     CLASSES     OF     SOCIETY.         197 

of  more  responsibility.  He  has  more  influence,  more 
power ;  for  gold  dazzles  the  eye  —  and  mankind,  like 
the  moth,  are  disposed  to  follow  the  glare.  The  rich 
man's  actions,  then,  become  efficient  examples  to  those 
around  him — lectures  of  more  power  than  those  of  the 
pulpit  preacher.  The  rich  set  the  fashion,  and  fashion 
is  a  goddess  of  almost  unlimited  sway.  A  wise  and 
good  man  who  has  riches,  may  therefore  be,  and  often 
is,  a  light  set  on  a  hill ;  but  a  selfish,  or  even  a  reckless 
rich  man,  either  hides  his  light  under  a  bushel,  or  uses 
it  to  dazzle  and  delude  those  who  are  around  him, 
to  their  ruin.  The  vices  of  the  poor  are  generally  hurt 
ful  only  to  themselves.  The  thief,  the  drunkard,  the 
burglar,  in  the  dirty  streets  of  a  city,  do  little  harm  by 
their  example  to  others ;  for  vice  in  rags  is  disgusting 
to  all.  But  the  vices  of  those  who  dwell  in  palaces  of 
granite,  seen  through  rose-colored  plate  glass,  have  a  hue 
that  turns  deformity  into  an  angel  of  light.  Indolence,  vo 
luptuousness,  extravagance,  haughtiness,  exclusiveness, 
affectation  —  all  these,  amid  many  others  —  vices  of 
the  rich  —  as  truly  vicious  as  theft  and  burglary  —  as 
truly  founded  in  selfishness,  and  as  truly  going  to  de 
face  the  image  of  God  in  the  soul,  —  have  a  character 
of  gentility,  and  are  as  readily  imitated  as  if  they 
were  Scripture  virtues.  They  are  imitated,  too,  with 
complacency ;  and  that  salutary  fear,  which  attends  other 
vices,  and  which  may,  soon  or  late,  lead  the  soul  to  shake 
them  off,  does  not  exist.  The  rich  may,  therefore,  be 
considered  as  preachers  —  their  houses,  as  temples  — 
and  the  world  around,  as  their  attentive  auditory. 
Their  situation  is  one  of  great  responsibility.  If  a  man 


198        THE     THREE     CLASSES     OF     SOCIETY. 

goes  into  the  pulpit,  and  preaches  atheism,  every  good 
mind  is  shocked,  and  starts  back,  as  if  that  image  in 
which  Satan  deluded  our  common  mother,  had  suddenly 
come  before  him.  But  the  rich  man,  who  sets  an  exam 
ple  of  indolence,  or  haughtiness,  or  voluptuousness  — 
who  brings  up  his  children  in  idleness,  or  tolerates  them 
in  what  is  called  dandyism,  or  exclusiveness,  or  an  affec 
tation  of  superiority  —  he  is  a  worse  enemy  to  society, 
if  we  regarded  practical  consequences,  than  the  infidel 
preacher.  He  sows,  far  and  wide,  the  seeds  of  seductive 
vice,  and  leaves  society  to  reap  the  whirlwind. 

In  this  point  of  view,  the  rich  occupy  a  station  of 
commanding  eminence.  They  are  the  first,  or  highest 
class  of  society,  if  we  regard  power  and  responsibility ; 
but  not  the  first,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term  ; 
that  of  being  the  happiest.  Nor  do  the  poor,  as  being  the 
least  happy,  occupy  the  last  station.  Happiness,  indeed, 
is  almost  independent  of  condition.  The  terms,  then, 
high  and  low,  so  often  used,  as  marking  out  society  into 
classes,  are  false ;  they  are  also  mischievous,  as  tending 
to  imbue  the  minds  of  some  with  conceit,  and  others 
with  venomous  discontent.  They,  at  least,  put  into  the 
hands  of  those  who  adopt  the  political  doctrine,  "  divide, 
and  conquer,"  a  power,  by  which  they  may  array  one 
part  of  the  community  against  the  other ;  and  when  the 
war  is  waged,  lead  on  their  dupes  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  their  own  purposes. 

Let  us  take  a  wiser  and  more  just  view  of  this  sub 
ject.  The  happy  class  of  society,  is  the  industrious 
class  —  be  they  rich,  be  they  poor,  or  be  they  in  that 
better  condition,  petitioned  for  by  him  who  said,  "Give 


THE     THREE     CLASSES     OF     SOCIETY.         199 

me  neither  poverty  nor  riches."  It  is  in  this  middle 
station,  that  peace  and  dignity  are  most  frequently 
found. 

I  know  of  no  better  test  of  happiness,  than  simplicity 
of  manners.  Show  me  a  person,  who  is  free  from  affec 
tation,  free  alike  from  disguise,  uneasiness  and  pretence ; 
one  who  seems  solicitous  to  hide  nothing,  and  to  dis 
play  nothing  —  one,  in  short,  who  bears  upon  him  the 
impress  of  truth,  and  you  show  me  a  man,  who,  in 
wealth  or  poverty,  is  happy.  Truth,  in  morals,  is  like 
gold  among  the  metals;  it  is  always  valuable  —  always 
graceful.  Whether  rough  in  its  native  state,  as  in 
rustic  life ;  or  wrought  up  with  the  refinements  of 
more  artificial  society,  it  is  still  truth,  and  constitutes 
the  basis  of  all  virtue,  all  happiness,  all  moral  beauty. 
Every  thing  is  trashy  and  base  without  it.  The  false 
imitations  of  it  —  affectation,  pretence,  assumption,  arro 
gance  —  are  brassy  counterfeits,  alike  worthless  to  the 
possessor,  and  contemptible  in  the  sight  of  true  wisdom. 
And  in  what  condition  of  society  is  this  simplicity  or 
truth  of  character  most  frequently  found?  I  hesitate 
not  to  declare,  that  it  is  with  those  who  occupy  a  station 
between  the  extremes  of  poverty  and  riches. 

And  how  happy  is  it,  thanks  to  our  fathers,  thanks  to 
a  beneficent  Providence,  thanks  to  this  fair  land,  and 
this  bountiful  climate,  that  this  happiest  condition  of  life 
is  accessible  to  all !  Every  man  may  not  have  gainful 
talents,  or  the  favoring  tide  of  fortune,  to  aid  him  in 
the  aquisition  of  wealth ;  but  every  man  may  attain  a 
better  eminence  —  every  one  may  be  industrious,  and 
acquire  that  middling  independence,  which  is  better 


200 


THE  THREE  CLASSES  OF  SOCIETY. 


than  wealth.  I  say,  every  one;  for  the  exceptions 
arising  from  ill  health,  or  casual  misfortune,  are  rare. 
A  man  may  be  industrious  and  yet  poor ;  in  general,  how 
ever,  industry,  patient,  quiet  industry,  is  a  sure  remedy 
for  poverty. 

There  is  poverty  arising  from  indolence;  there  is 
poverty  even  among  working  people,  arising  from  a 
greedy  love  of  indulgence,  which  devours  all  they  earn. 
These  varieties  of  indigence  are  generally  connected 
with  vice,  and  are  exceedingly  apt  to  be  attended  with 
discontent.  It  is  among  such  people  you  hear  of  bad 
luck ;  it  is  among  such  people  you  discover  a  feverish 
desire  of  finding  out  some  lottery,  or  other  royal  road  to 
riches;  it  is  among  such  you  find  those  who  are  willing 
to  become  the  dupes  of  crafty  agitators,  pretending  to 
seek  the  benefit  of  the  working  classes,  whom  they  only 
wish  to  use  as  tools.  This  willing  poverty  —  so  blind, 
so  ignorant,  so  pernicious,  so  easily  duped  —  making  its 
subjects  even  desirous  of  destroying  the  institutions 
which  preserve  wealth,  is,  happily,  not  found  among  us. 
Industry,  here,  has  diffused  a  better  light.  Though 
there  are  not  many  rich  among  us,  we  still  look  upon  the 
possessors  of  wealth,  as  entitled  to  their  stores ;  nay,  we 
regard  these  stores  as  reservoirs  from  which  streams  often 
flow  out,  for  the  benefit  of  all.  As  the  lakes  hoard  up 
the  waters  which  turn  the  mill,  and  perpetuate,  even  in 
time  of  drought,  the  rill  and  the  river  ;  so  the  rich  man's 
wealth  generally  flows  forth,  turning  the  wheels  of 
industry,  and  filling  the  cup  of  those  who  will  stoop  to 
receive  it. 


THE  BIRD'S  ADIEU. 

FAREWELL  to  the  meadow, 

For  summer  is  past ; 
Farewell,  for  its  leaves 

Now  whirl  on  the  blast. 
Farewell  to  the  bough 

Where  my  cradle  was  swung, 
And  the  song  of  my  mother 

Was  joyously  sung. 

How  sweet  was  that  song 

Of  the  light-hearted  bird  ! 
No  other  I  '11  sing  — 

'T  was  the  first  that  I  heard : 
And  though  to  far  lands 

I  must  hasten  away, 
Wherever  I  roam 

I  will  carry  that  lay. 

How  sweet  are  these  scenes, 
For  my  birth-place  is  here ; 

And  I  know  that  in  absence, 
They  will  be  but  more  dear. 


18 


203  THE   BIRD'S   ADIEU. 

I  '11  sing  of  them  there, 
In  the  land  where  I  roam, 

And,  winter  departed, 
I  '11  return  to  my  home. 


TRAITS  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

IT  is  doubtless  true,  as  has  been  frequently  affirmed, 
that  national  character  is  formed  by  circumstances ;  and 
among  those  which  exert  a  controlling  influence  are 
climate  and  government.  But  there  appear  to  be  origi 
nal,  constitutional  traits,  which  long  resist  even  the 
force  of  these.  It  is  easy  to  discern,  in  the  inhabitants 
of  the  different  counties  of  England,  differences,  not  of 
language  only,  but  of  complexion,  thought,  feeling,  and 
character,  which  are  evidently  traceable  to  original  dif 
ferences  in  the  tribes  from  which  they  are  descended. 

To  the  original  Celtic  constitution  of  the  Irish,  we 
may  therefore  attribute  much  of  their  distinctive  char 
acter.  That  they  have  been  cut  off  by  their  insular  con 
dition  from  easy  and  frequent  intercourse  with  other 
nations ;  that  they  escaped  the  overwhelming  dominion 
of  Rome ;  that,  while  they  have  been  the  subjects  of 
foreign  dominion,  they  have  still  cherished  a  lively  feel 
ing  of  nationality,  —  are  facts  which  both  prove  and 
explain  the  descent  of  their  leading  national  character 
istics,  from  high  antiquity. 

It  might  seem  that  language  would  be  one  of  the 
frailest  of  monuments;  but  it  is  more  enduring  than 
castles,  temples,  pyramids,  or  obelisks.  These  moulder, 
and  their  inscriptions  mingle  with  the  dust ;  while  words 
spoken  from  generation  to  generation,  are  handed  down, 


204  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

thus  descending  through  long  ages,  and,  in  this  instance, 
from  the  Celtic  barbarian  to  the  living  sons  of  Erin. 
Nor  do  words  descend  as  mere  barren  sounds,  for  they 
carry  thoughts,  feelings,  and  customs,  with  them.  The 
provision  which  we  see  in  nature  for  the  perpetuation 
and  distribution  of  plants,  finds  a  parallel  in  the  process 
by  which  ideas  are  preserved  and  disseminated.  We 
see  that,  from  the  humble  grasses  to  the  monarch  oak  of 
the  forest,  each  plant  has  some  shell,  or  pod,  or  folded 
leaf,  by  which  the  seed  is  sheltered  from  the  blast,  and 
where  it  is  brought  to  maturity ;  and  we  find  that  the 
winds  and  birds  distribute  these  over  distant  fields,  till 
the  whole  region  is  sown.  There  may  be  here  and 
there  a  sullen  desert  which  rejects  the  gift ;  but  these 
are  few  and  far  between.  The  proffered  boon  is  gener 
ally  received  and  cherished  by  the  soil,  till,  in  the  words 
of  the  rhymer, 

"  No  spot  on  earth 

The  furrowing  ploughman  finds,  but  there 

The  rank  and  ready  weeds  have  birth, 
Sown  by  the  winds  to  mock  his  care." 

It  is  so  with  human  thoughts  and  feelings.  Language 
is  the  great  instrument  by  which  these  are  perpetuated 
and  disseminated.  Words,  phrases,  fables,  allegories, 
proverbs,  are  equivalent  to  the  shells,  and  pods,  arid 
capsules,  of  the  vegetable  kingdom  ;  and  these  transmit 
ideas  from  generation  to  generation,  from  dynasty  to 
dynasty,  from  age  to  age. 

Poetry  becomes  the  depository  of  great  events,  and, 
like  the  winds  which  bear  the  winged  seeds  from  field 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  205 

to  field,  from  season  to  season,  wafts  down  the  memory 
of  heroic  deeds,  and  the  creations  of  genius,  to  after 
times.  Nor  is  it  indispensable  to  this  process  that  a 
written  literature  should  exist,  or  be  diffused  among  the 
people ;  for  tradition  has  a  conservative  power,  which 
resists  decay,  and  brushes  away  the  gathering  dust  of 
oblivion. 

The  Irish  nation  has  been  peculiarly  influenced  by 
this  process  of  moral  and  intellectual  semination. 
Roman  conquest,  which  ploughed  up  all  the  rest  of 
Europe,  sowing  it  with  Roman  civilization,  left  Ireland 
to  the  wild  luxuriance  of  her  original  condition.  Nor 
did  Christianity  effectually  change  the  soil,  or  its  pro 
ducts,  but  rather  grafted  new  ideas  upon  the  old  stock, 
thus  producing  a  new  and  peculiar  fruit. 

The  isolated  position  of  Ireland,  with  the  pugnacity 
of  the  people,  not  only  secured  the  country  from  Roman 
invasion,  but,  after  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  for 
a  time  protected  it  from  the  hordes  of  barbarians  which 
overran  other  countries.  In  its  sheltered  position,  it 
became  the  retreat  of  monastic  learning  and  piety,  in 
that  dark  age,  when  the  sun  of  heaven  seemed  with 
drawn  from  the  rest  of  Europe.  During  this,  and  at  a 
still  later  period,  the  national  bardic  literature  was 
cultivated  and  spread  amongst  the  people.  The  annals 
of  the  nation  were  also  collected  and  transcribed,  thus 
being  fitted  for  transmission  to  after  times. 

There  are  two  other  circumstances  which  are  to  be 
duly  considered,  in  tracing  the  Irish  national  character 
to  its  sources.  Though  Ireland  has  been  nominally 
conquered  by  the  English,  it  has  never  been  thoroughly 

18* 


206  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

subdued.  The  Irish  mind  is  still  independent,  and, 
deeply  indignant  at  the  oppressions  of  British  dominion, 
erects  itself  in  sturdy  defiance  to  British  laws,  customs, 
and  opinions.  One  half  the  Irish  nation,  to  this  very 
day,  reject  the  religion,  civilization,  and  government  of 
England,  in  their  hearts,  and  cling  with  undying  pride 
to  their  national  individuality.  They  cannot  endure 
the  idea  of  being  quenched  and  forgotten  in  the  supre 
macy  of  another  people.  Every  where  the  traveller  in 
Ireland  finds  a  spirit  of  self-sustentation,  which  is  often 
not  a  little  amusing,  when  we  compare  the  boastful 
assumption  with  the  truth.  A  single  proverb  illustrates 
the  whole  matter.  "An  English  hen  cannot  lay  a  fresh 
egg,"  saith  the  Hibernian  adage. 

If,  then,  we  consider  the  Irish  people  as  a  nation, 
who,  according  to  her  accredited  annals,  links  her  name 
with  antiquity;  whose  line  of  descent  has  not  been 
crossed  for  ages ;  whose  popular  legends,  carrying  with 
them  the  popular  faith,  connect  the  generations  of  to 
day  with  heroes  of  the  olden  time ;  whose  minds  have 
been  the  recipients  of  ideas,  opinions,  customs,  and 
superstitions,  transmitted  from  ages  reaching  back  to 
the  very  cradle  of  the  human  family ;  whose  hearts  are 
full  of  the  treasured  memory  of  national  wrongs ;  and 
whose  Christianity,  strongly  woven  into  the  popular  faith, 
is  still  blent  with  something  of  Oriental  paganism  —  we 
shall  see  sufficient  causes  for  a  peculiar  national  char 
acter.  If  education  be  the  formation  of  character,  and 
if  circumstances  are  the  instruments  of  education,  we 
can  see  in  the  history  of  the  Irish  nation,  at  least  in  part, 
the  sources  of  the  tenacious  pride,  the  poetic  tempera- 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER 


207 


ment,  the  rich,  mosaic  imagination,  the  quick  feeling, 
the  intense  nationality,  of  the  Irish  people. 

Among  the  conspicuous  traits  of  Irish  character, 
we  may  remark  their  tendency  to  adhere  to  old  customs. 
There  is  more  or  less  reverence  for  the  past  in  all 
countries.  It  is  the  tendency  of  human  nature,  wherever 
it  may  be  found,  to  fall  into  the  beaten  path,  and  follow 
it  out.  "  Custom,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "  is  the  principal 
magistrate  of  man's  life."  But  there  is  something  in  the 
tenacity  with  which  the  Irish  hold  on  to  the  thoughts, 
opinions,  and  usages,  of  past  ages,  which  appears  to 
surpass  any  thing  of  the  kind  to  be  found  among  other 
European  nations.  This  is  strikingly  illustrated  by  an 
adherence  to  their  political  system  for  more  than  a  thou 
sand  years,  although  experience  had  demonstrated  that 
system  to  be  destructive  of  the  peace,  happiness,  and 
prosperity  of  the  nation. 

This  national  trait  is  also  displayed  in  the  numerous 
relics  of  ancient  superstitions  which  are  still  preserved 
by  the  people,  although  the  systems  upon  which  they 
are  founded  have  been  swept  away  for  almost  fifteen 
hundred  years.  It  may  be  remarked  that  many  of 
the  prevalent  customs  of  Ireland,  at  the  present  day, 
many  of  the  thoughts,  feelings,  and  observances,  of  the 
people,  are  evidently  the  cherished  fragments  of  pagan 
ism,  saved  from  the  wreck  of  Persian  fire-worship,  Car 
thaginian  idolatry,  or  Druidical  superstition.  It  would 
exceed  our  present  limits  to  go  into  a  detailed  examina 
tion  of  these ;  it  is  perhaps  only  necessary  to  remark, 
that  the  perpetuation  of  the  ancient  Celtic  tongue  among 
the  Irish,  is  not  more  plain  and  palpable,  than  the  pre- 


208  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

servation  of  ideas  and  sentiments  as  ancient  as  that  lan 
guage  itself. 

It  is  easy  to  perceive  the  conservative  tendency  of  this 
national  characteristic  in  the  Irish ;  and  we  may  readily 
believe  that  it  has  had  its  share  of  influence  in  saving 
the  people  from  that  waste  and  disintegration,  which  the 
shock  of  ages  brings  upon  mankind.  The  direct  opera 
tion  of  this  adherence  to  old  customs,  is  to  unite  the 
people  by  a  strong  bond  of  common  sympathy. 

Such  a  community  will  rally  as  one  man  to  drive  out 
a  foreign  people,  who  may  come  with  new  customs,  to 
overturn  the  old  ones.  A  slight  examination  of  Irish 
history  will  show  that  facts  have  abundantly  proved  the 
truth  of  this  theory.  No  foreign  people  have  ever  flour 
ished  in  Ireland.  The  Carthaginian  colonists  were 
successively  melted  down  and  mingled  in  the  mass  of 
the  nation.  The  Danes,  though  they  occupied  certain 
portions  of  the  country  for  more  than  two  hundred  years, 
being  of  too  stubborn  a  stock  to  become  assimilated 
with  those  among  whom  they  dwelt,  and  over  whom  they 
exercised  at  least  partial  dominion,  were  the  unceas 
ing  objects  of  hostility,  and  at  last  were  expelled  from  a 
country  which  they  could  not  subdue.  England  bowed 
to  the  iron  sway  of  the  Danes,  and  was  only  delivered 
from  it  by  calling  in  foreign  aid;  but  Ireland  never 
yielded  to  their  dominion,  and  by  her  own  arm  at  last 
freed  herself  from  these  ruthless  oppressors. 

It  is  now  almost  seven  hundred  years  since  Ireland 
was  conquered  by  an  English  king;  but,  for  at  least  five 
centuries  after  that  conquest,  the  dominion  of  England 
over  Ireland  was  little  more  than  nominal.  From  the 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  209 

time  of  Strongbow's  invasion  to  the  period  of  Elizabeth, 
though  Ireland  was  regarded  as  an  appendage  to  the 
British  crown,  two  thirds  of  the  Irish  people  held  them 
selves,  both  in  theory  and  practice,  almost  wholly  inde 
pendent  of  foreign  control.  And  even  down  to  the  pres 
ent  day,  there  is  a  perpetual  struggle  on  the  part  of  the 
nation  to  heave  off  the  giant  that  has  thrown  her  down. 
After  seven  hundred  years  of  either  nominal  or  real 
dominion,  England  has  been  unable  to  Anglicise  Ire 
land.  Not  only  is  the  government  still  resisted  by  the 
Irish  people,  but,  as  before  remarked,  the  religion,  the 
customs,  the  opinions,  and  feelings  of  England,  are 
obstinately  kept  at  bay  by  a  large  part  of  the  nation. 

Among  numerous  illustrations  of  this,  the  following  is 
furnished  by  Miss  Edgeworth.  She  tells  us  of  a  wealthy 
young  nobleman,  who  built  a  neat  cottage,  with  all  the 
modern  comforts  and  conveniences,  for  an  old  Irish 
woman.  On  going  to  the  place  a  few  weeks  after  she 
had  taken  possession,  he  found  that  she  had  converted 
it,  as  far  as  possible,  into  an  Irish  hovel.  Even  the  fire 
place  was  disregarded,  and  a  fire  was  built  in  the  middle 
of  the  brick  floor,  the  smoke,  of  course,  circulating 
through  the  room.  The  old  woman  explained  this  by 
insisting  that  she  was  so  accustomed  to  smoke,  she  could 
not  live  without  it. 

It  may  be  said,  and  with  much  justice,  that  this  sturdy 
adherence  to  old  customs  partakes  of  obstinacy  and  prej 
udice,  and  that  it  may  be  among  the  causes  of  that 
tardy  march  of  improvement,  which  may  be  remarked 
in  Ireland.  It  will  also  serve  to  explain,  in  some  degree, 
the  fact,  that  an  Irishman  seldom  knows  how  to  do  more 


210  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

than  one  thing  well,  and  that  he  is  wholly  deficient  in 
that  versatility  which  enables  the  Yankee  to  turn  his 
hand,  successfully,  to  whatever  may  chance  to  offer. 

But  if  a  portion  of  the  Irish  people  miss  the  true 
end  of  existence  by  adhering  to  old  customs,  permit  me 
to  suggest  the  caution  that  we  do  not  rashly  run  into 
the  opposite  extreme.  In  a  country  like  ours,  having 
no  antiquity  and  opening  boundless  fields  of  enterprise 
to  all,  we  are  apt  to  think  only  of  the  future,  and,  in 
our  eagerness  to  lead  in  the  race,  to  forget  those  more 
than  golden  treasures,  which  consist  of  memories  and 
sentiments  and  usages.  The  truth  is,  man  is  not  made 
wholly  for  action,  but  partly  for  contemplation.  He  is 
placed  between  two  glorious  mirrors — anticipation  and 
retrospection  —  the  one  beckoning  him  forward,  the 
other  reflecting  light  upon  the  path  he  should  follow, 
and  casting  a  cool  and  wholesome  shade  over  his  pas 
sions.  It  is  a  departure  from  the  just  balance  of  his 
nature,  to  dash  either  of  these  in  pieces.  Whoever 
limits  his  existence  to  "  that  fleeting  strip  of  sunlight, 
which  we  call  now,"  reduces  himself  like  the  ticking 
clock,  to  a  mere  measure  of  passing  seconds.  He  who 
lives  only  in  the  future,  never  pausing  to  look  back  and 
take  counsel  of  the  past,  never  bending  his  gaze  over 
the  world  of  retrospection,  softened  with  the  mist  and 
moonlight  of  memory,  —  lives  the  life  of  the  restless 
settler  of  the  far  West,  who  never  stops  to  secure  or 
enjoy  what  has  been  won  from  the  wilderness,  but  still 
pushes  on  and  on,  for  scenes  of  new  excitement  and 
new  adventure.  A  wise  man,  and  a  wise  people,  will 
use  the  past  as  the  prophet  of  the  future,  and  make 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  211 

both  of  these  subservient  to  the  interests  of  each  pas 
sing  moment.  The  children  of  Israel  would  not  stay 
in  Egypt,  but,  in  going  to  the  land  of  promise,  they 
took  the  bones  of  the  patriarch  Joseph  with  them.  In 
pressing  forward  in  the  march  of  improvement,  let  us, 
in  like  manner,  bear  along  with  us  the  experience,  the 
wisdom,  the  virtue,  and  the  religion  of  our  fathers. 

But,  while  we  admit  that  the  Irish  carry  their  obser 
vance  of  old  customs  to  the  length  of  obstinacy,  it  is 
proper  to  notice  one  remarkable  exception  afforded  by 
their  history.  I  mean  the  introduction  and  establish 
ment  of  Christianity  in  Ireland  by  St.  Patrick.  The 
history  of  this  event  shows  that  even  the  pertinacity  of 
superstition  yielded  in  Ireland  to  the  voice  of  truth, 
assuming  the  mild  and  gentle  accents  of  persuasion ;  a 
fact  that  suggests  the  proper  course  of  action  to  all  who 
attempt  to  exert  an  influence  over  the  Irish  people. 

Among  the  characteristics  usually  assigned  to  the 
Irish,  is  that  of  pugnacity.  It  has  been  said,  that  while 
the  Englishman  fights  for  the  supremacy  of  the  seas,  the 
Frenchman  for  glory,  the  German  for  his  prince,  and 
the  Swiss  for  pay  and  rations,  the  son  of  Erin  fights  for 
fun.  Even  the  Irish  song  seems  to  lend  countenance  to 
this  popular  notion ;  for  it  speaks  of  knocking  down  a 
friend  from  mere  affection ! 

It  is  not  a  little  curious  that  the  names  of  places  in 
Ireland  coincide  with  this  attribute  of  the  people.  Ire 
land  — the  land  of  ire  —  is  the  designation  of  the  country ; 
and  Killgobbin,  Killkenay,  Killmacthomas,  Inniskilling, 
Killmany,  Killmore,  and  a  thousand  others  of  like  im 
port,  are  the  names  of  towns.  Knockmeledown,  Knock- 


212  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

malloch,  Knockmore,  is  the  established  nomenclature 
for  hills.  Every  hill,  indeed,  is  a  knock,  and  every 
church  a  kill.  The  rhyme  says, 

"  Who  killed  Killdare  ?     Who  dared  Killdare  to  kill  ?  " 
"  I  killed  Killdare,  and  dare  kill  whom  I  will." 

The  frequent  recurrence  of  names  of  places  beginning 
with  kitty  might  indeed  seem  alarming  to  a  stranger  in 
Ireland,  especially  if  he  be  under  the  influence  of 
those  prejudices  which  have  been  excited  against  that 
country.  The  following  mistake  occurred  when  some 
of  the  English  militia  regiments  were  in  Ireland  during 
the  rebellion  of  1798.  A  soldier,  a  native  of  Devon 
shire,  who  was  stationed  at  an  outpost,  stopped  a  coun 
tryman,  and  demanded  who  he  was,  whence  he  came, 
and  whither  he  was  going.  The  fellow  replied,  "  And 
my  name,  my  dear  honey,  is  Tullyhog ;  and,  d'  ye  see, 
I  am  just  been  to  Killmany,  and  am  going  to  Killmore." 
Upon  this,  the  sentinel  immediately  seized  him,  expect 
ing  to  receive  a  high  reward  for  having  apprehended  a 
most  sanguinary  rebel,  just  come  from  murder,  and  go 
ing  to  a  fresh  banquet  of  blood. 

But  there  is  graver  authority  for  this  view  of  Hiber 
nian  character.  The  first  glimpses  of  Irish  history 
present  us  with  the  spectacle  of  a  nation  almost  con 
stantly  engaged  in  civil  war.  The  division  of  the  coun 
try  into  a  number  of  petty  kingdoms  would  tend  to 
breed  dissension,  even  among  a  people  disposed  to 
peace ;  but  in  a  nation  prompt  to  act  and  slow  to  reflect, 
it  was  sure  to  result  in  constant  scenes  of  battle  and 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  213 

bloodshed.  The  appetite  of  the  people,  therefore,  for 
strife,  became  strengthened  by  the  successive  practice  of 
ages,  until,  at  last,  a  state  of  internal  war  seemed  to  be 
the  natural  condition  of  the  Irish  people.  This  char 
acteristic  of  the  nation  seems  to  have  descended  even 
to  our  more  pacific  times,  though  it  is  greatly  mitigated. 

But,  in  thus  stating  and  illustrating  the  pugnacity  of 
the  Irish,  we  must  remark  that  it  is  of  a  very  peculiar 
kind.  It  seems  to  have  no  malice  or  ferocity  in  it ;  for 
the  broken  head  of  to-day  leaves  no  soreness  at  the 
heart  to-morrow.  It  is,  in  truth,  but  a  species  of  chiv 
alry  resulting  from  high  animal  spirits,  and  an  excessive 
appreciation  of  courage,  excited  and  perpetuated,  per 
haps,  by  the  deeds  of  their  heroes,  as  set  forth  by  the 
bards.  A  few  instances  will  illustrate  this  characteristic. 
An  Irishman,  having  had  a  large  fortune  suddenly  de 
volved  upon  him,  determined  to  make  the  grand  tour  of 
Europe.  After  passing  through  France  and  Italy,  and 
part  of  Spain,  with  scarcely  any  emotions  of  delight,  he 
entered  a  village  in  the  latter  country,  where  he  saw  a 
mob,  fighting  desperately ;  upon  which,  in  a  moment,  he 
sprang  out  of  his  carriage,  and,  without  inquiring  into 
the  cause  of  the  battle,  or  ascertaining  which  side  he 
ought  in  justice  to  espouse,  he  laid  about  him  with  his 
shilala;  and  after  having  had  several  of  his  teeth  knocked 
out,  he  returned  to  his  carriage,  exclaiming,  "  By  St. 
Patrick,  it  is  the  only  bit  of  fun  I  have  had  since  I 
left  Ireland ! " 

We  have  among  us  a  story  of  an  Irishman,  who  was 
employed  by  a  farmer  of  New  Hampshire.  He  was,  on 
one  occasion,  preparing  to  go  to  a  fair,  then  annually  held 

19 


214  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

at  the  town  of  Derry,  when  the  farmer  attempted  to  dis 
suade  him.  "  You  always  come  back  from  the  fair, 
Pat,"  said  the  farmer,  "  with  a  broken  head ;  now  stay 
at  home,  and  I  will  give  you  five  dollars."  "  And  do 
you  think,  sir,"  said  Patrick,  "  I  'd  take  five  dollars  for 
the  bating  I'd  get ? " 

There  is  no  nation  on  whom  the  gift  of  natural 
courage  is  more  largely  bestowed,  than  on  the  Irish.  In 
the  common  people,  it  too  often  displays  itself  in  noisy 
brawls;  but  in  the  disciplined  soldier,  it  rises  to  the 
loftiest  pitch  of  intrepid  gallantry. 

In  battle,  on  shore  and  at  sea,  the  Irish  soldier  and 
sailor  have  been  remarkable  for  their  valor,  steadiness, 
and  subordination.  As  far  back  as  Spenser's  time,  the 
bravery  of  the  Irish  soldier  was  honorably  mentioned. 
That  happy  genius  says,  "  I  have  heard  some  great 
warriors  say,  that  in  all  the  services  which  they  had 
seen  abroad  in  foreign  countries,  they  never  saw  a  more 
comely  man  than  an  Irishman,  nor  that  cometh  on  more 
bravely  to  his  charge." 

The  instances  of  Irish  intrepidity  are  numerous  and 
striking.  There  is  an  affecting  story  of  this  sort,  con 
nected  with  the  famous  battle  of  Clontarf.  In  this  en 
gagement,  many  of  the  Irish  princes  joined  their  forces 
to  those  of  Brian  Borohm.  This  hoary  monarch  being 
eighty  years  of  age,  and  unable  personally  to  engage  in 
the  conflict,  remained  in  his  tent  during  ihe  battle. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  engagement,  a  few  of  the  in 
furiated  Danes  broke  in  upon  the  unprotected  chief,  and 
regardless  of  his  gray  hairs  and  helpless  condition,  took 
his  life.  But  the  Irish  were  completely  victorious,  and 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  215 

the  death  of  Brian  was  deeply  avenged.  The  battle 
being  over,  the  Irish  chieftians  set  out  for  their  several 
dominions.  One  of  these,  the  leader  of  a  gallant  band, 
who  had  shared  largely  in  the  perils,  as  well  as  the 
triumphs  of  the  fight,  was  marching  on,  bearing  the  sick 
and  wounded  carefully  toward  their  homes.  They  came, 
at  length,  to  the  territory  of  another  chief,  which  they 
desired  to  cross.  There  they  were  met  by  an  army, 
who  refused  permission  to  enter  their  district,  but  upon 
the  payment  of  tribute.  This  was  stoutly  refused ;  and 
although  the  soldiers  from  the  field  of  Clontarf  were 
worn  out  with  fatigue,  crippled  with  losses,  and  encum 
bered  by  their  sick  and  wounded,  they  still  determined 
upon  battle,  rather  than  submission  to  a  demand  which 
they  considered  at  any  time  unjust,  and  on  the  present 
occasion,  in  the  highest  degree  dastardly.  Even  the 
sick  and  wounded,  under  these  circumstances,  seemed 
to  be  inspired  with  the  spirit  of  battle,  and  insisted  upon 
taking  their  share  in  the  conflict  which  was  about  to 
ensue.  Accordingly,  at  their  request,  stakes  were 
driven  in  the  ground,  along  the  front  of  the  line  where 
the  onset  was  expected,  and  to  each  of  these,  one  of  the 
sick  or  wounded  soldiers  was  firmly  tied  in  an  erect 
posture,  his  sword  and  battle-axe  being  placed  in  his 
grasp.  Thus  prepared,  the  little  army  awaited  the 
battle,  which  now  seemed  at  hand.  The  inhospitable 
prince  ledgpn  his  troops,  and  was  about  to  give  orders 
for  the  attack,  when  seeing  in  the  little  army  that  oppo 
sed  him,  the  sick  and  wounded  tied  to  their  posts,  he 
was  so  smitten  with  admiration  at  this  display  of  self- 


216          TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

devotion,  that  he  withdrew  his  forces,  and  allowed  the 
army  to  proceed  unmolested  on  its  march. 

As  connected  with  the  courage  of  the  Irish,  it  is  pro 
per  to  notice  that  improvident  restlessness,  which  is  a 
conspicuous  characteristic  of  the  people,  particularly 
under  the  restraint  of  foreign  dominion.  Even  during 
those  periods  in  which  they  were  only  subject  to  their 
legitimate  princes,  and  whose  authority  they  seemed  to 
approve,  the  Irish  still  were  in  a  state  of  almost  perpetual 
agitation.  In  more  modern  times,  and  since  the  cords 
of  the  English  dominion  have  been  drawn  more  tightly, 
this  nervous  excitability  of  the  nation  has  even  increased. 
Since  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  Ireland  has  presented 
an  almost  constant  series  of  convulsions,  insurrections, 
and  rebellions.  For  these,  indeed,  there  may  have  been 
ample  provocation  in  the  wicked  injustice  of  their  op 
pressors.  The  whole  course  of  British  policy  toward 
Ireland,  for  three  hundred  years,  appears  to  have  been 
calculated  to  alienate  the  feelings  of  the  people  from  their 
rulers,  and  rouse  all  their  prejudices  and  passions  against 
England  and  the  English.  The  first  of  these  impolitic  acts 
was  adopted  in  1536.  A  parliament  was  then  assembled, 
which  formally  proceeded  to  annul  the  papal  power,  and 
to  declare  Henry  VIII.  of  England  the  supreme  head,  on 
earth,  of  the  church  in  Ireland.  Every  person  who  re 
fused  to  take  the  oath  of  supremacy  was  declared  guilty 
of  high  treason.  But  to  resist  these  usurpations,  confed 
eracies  were  formed  all  over  the  kingdom;  and  it  was 
not  till  the  year  1551,  that  the  English  liturgy  was  per 
formed  in  the  Irish  churches.  But  in  spite  of  all  the 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.          217 

coercive  measures  of  the  English  government,  the  bulk 
of  the  nation  steadily  adhered  to  their  ancient  faith,  and 
the  cause  of  religion  became  the  cause  of  the  nation. 
The  attempts  to  force  the  people  to  renounce  a  faith 
which  they  had  received  from  St.  Patrick,  and  to  adopt 
a  new  system  of  religion  with  an  English  ritual,  nat 
urally  became  blended  with  the  national  prejudices 
against  English  oppression,  and  cooperated  to  produce 
the  famous  insurrection  of  Tyrone. 

The  conduct  of  James  I.  estranged  the  affection  of 
the  Irish ;  and  during  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  another 
rebellion  broke  out,  which  deluged  the  country  with 
blood.  Cromwell  undertook  to  crush  the  restive 
spirit  of  the  nation  with  the  trampling  heel  of  military 
power.  His  cruelties  toward  the  people  are  almost  in 
credible.  During  his  sway,  twenty  thousand  Irishmen 
were  sold  as  slaves,  and  forty  thousand  entered  into 
foreign  service  to  escape  from  tyranny  at  home. 

The  distracted  state  of  this  unhappy  kingdom  in  1688, 
can  hardly  be  described.  It  was  then  the  theatre  of  one 
of  the  fiercest  civil  wars  that  ever  raged  in  any  country. 
The  Catholics  declared  for  James,  and  the  Protestants 
for  William,  Prince  of  Orange.  The  battle  of  the  Boyne, 
on  the  first  of  July,  1690,  decided  the  fate  of  James,  who 
fled  to  France.  William  acceded  to  the  British  throne ; 
and  heavy  indeed  were  the  punishments  inflicted  on  the 
Catholics,  who  had  taken  part  with  the  now  defeated 
and  exiled  Stuart.  The  number  of  Irish  subjects,  out 
lawed  on  this  occasion,  amounted  to  nearly  four  hundred 
thousand,  and  their  lands,  confiscated,  were  more  than  a 
million  and  a  half  of  acres. 

19* 


218  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

In  1798,  the  injured  Irish,  deprived  of  the  enjoy 
ment  of  their  dearest  rights,  and  condemned  to  political 
disabilities  on  account  of  professing  the  Catholic  religion, 
once  more  rebelled.  This  event  is  within  the  memory 
of  many  who  are  still  living ;  and  we  have  seen  in  our 
time  one  distinguished  leader  of  that  rebellion,  having 
escaped  from  the  pursuit  of  tyranny,  seeking  a  home, 
and  at  last  a  resting-place,  on  our  American  shores.  I 
speak  of  the  late  Thomas  Addis  Emmet,  of  New  York. 
After  the  failure  of  their  schemes,  he  and  his  associates 
were  taken,  tried,  and  condemned.  Some  were  executed, 
and  some  transported;  but  he  was  himself  permitted  to 
escape  from  prison  by  the  jailer,  and  it  is  supposed,  by 
the  connivance  of  the  British  Government.  After  many 
vicissitudes,  he  came  to  this  country,  and  engaged  in 
the  profession  of  the  law.  His  great  learning,  his  power 
ful  intellect,  and  his  masterly  eloquence,  soon  raised  him 
to  the  highest  honors  of  his  profession.  His  mind  was 
indeed  haunted  with  recollections  of  his  country  and  his 
home,  and  sometimes  these  bitter  memories  would  find 
utterance.  But  in  general,  he  displayed  a  character  of 
great  gentleness  and  generosity;  and  becoming  an 
American  citizen,  he  adopted  the  customs  and  feelings 
of  our  country.  He  died  in  1827. 

Robert  Emmet,  the  brother  of  this  distinguished  in 
dividual,  was  concerned  in  the  rebellion  of  1803,  but 
his  fate  was  more  melancholy.  He  was  a  lawyer; 
young,  ardent,  and  full  of  talent.  Greatly  beloved  for 
his  virtues,  and  intensely  admired  for  his  genius,  he  be 
came  a  leader  among  the  conspirators.  With  the  rest 
he  was  detected,  seized,  and  brought  to  trial.  Before 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.          219 

his  judge  he  defended  himself,  with  admirable  dignity, 
eloquence,  and  power.  Knowing  that  his  fate  was  sealed, 
he  sought  not  to  save  his  life,  but  only  to  shelter  his 
name  and  fame  from  after  infamy.  "  Though  you,  my 
lord,"  said  he,  "  sit  there  a  judge,  and  I  stand  here  a 
culprit,  yet  you  are  but  a  man,  and  I  am  another.  I 
have  a  right,  therefore,  to  vindicate  my  character  and 
motives  from  the  aspersions  of  calumny ;  and  as  a  man 
to  whom  fame  is  dearer  than  life,  I  will  make  the  last  use 
of  that  life  in  rescuing  my  name  and  my  memory  from 
the  afflicting  imputation  of  having  been  a  traitor  to  my 
native  land." 

He  then  proceeded  with  a  stirring  appeal  to  his  coun 
trymen,  and  finally  closed  his  defence  in  the  following 
words :  "  My  lamp  of  life  is  nearly  extinguished ;  my  race  is 
finished.  The  fresh  grave  will  be  soon  ready  to  receive 
me,  and  I  shall  sink  into  its  bosom.  All  I  request  at 
parting  from  the  world  is  the  charity  of  its  silence.  Let 
no  man  write  my  epitaph ;  for  as  no  man,  who  knows 
my  motives,  dare  defend  them,  let  not  prejudice  or  igno 
rance  asperse  them.  Let  them  and  me  repose  in  ob 
scurity  and  peace,  and  my  tomb  remain  undescribed, 
till  other  times  and  other  men  can  do  justice  to  my 
character." 

Such  was  the  lofty  and  intrepid  bearing  of  Robert 
Emmet,  then  but  twenty-four  years  old,  in  the  hopeless 
hour  of  condemnation.  But  this  could  not  save  him ; 
and  he  perished  on  the  scaffold.  The  circumstances 
which  attended  his  fate,  however,  entered  into  every 
generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the 
stern  policy  which  dictated  his  execution.  "  But  there 


220  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

was  one  heart  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impossible  to 
describe.  In  happier  days,  and  fairer  fortunes,  Emmet 
had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl, 
the  daughter  of  the  celebrated  Curran.  She  loved  him 
with  the  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  only  love.  When 
every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him ;  when 
blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened 
around  his  name,  —  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for 
his  very  sufferings.  Exiled  from  home  by  a  father's 
stern  decree,  and  haunted  by  the  memory  of  her  lover's 
dishonored  grave ;  with  nothing  to  soothe  the  pang  of 
separation,  nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed 
tears,  sent  like  dews  to  revive  the  parched  bosom  in  the 
hour  of  anguish,  —  she  gradually  wasted  away,  and  died 
the  victim  of  a  broken  heart."  Her  melancholy  story 
has  found  a  chronicler  in  Irving,  and  Emmet  himself  is 
beautifully  mourned  by  the  poet  Moore,  who  thus  alludes 
to  his  last  request  —  "the  charity  of  the  world's 
silence : " 

"  O  breathe  not  his  name  ;  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where,  cold  and  unhonored,  his  relics  are  laid : 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

"  But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls." 

Such  is  the  pathetic  story  of  Robert  Emmet ;  and  thus 
the  generous  beatings  of  a  noble  heart  for  his  country's 
freedom  were  silenced  for  ever.  Alas  for  poor  Ireland, 


TRAITS     OP     IRISH     CHARACTER.  221 

that  patriotism  in  her  children,  should  be  a  crime  for 
which  the  gallows  only  can  atone ! 

I  have  thus  noticed  some  of  the  rebellions  of  Ireland; 
and  though  they  may  have  been  justified  by  the  oppres 
sion  of  her  despotic  masters,  yet  in  most  of  these  cases, 
and  particularly  in  the  last,  there  was  an  improvidence, 
which,  as  it  insured  failure,  almost  cancelled  the  pa 
triotism  displayed  by  those  who  were  ready  to  put  life 
and  property  at  risk  for  the  sake  of  liberty.  But  beside 
rebellions,  there  have  been  many  lesser  disturbances : 
agitation  is,  indeed,  but  the  common  condition  of  Ire 
land.  A  large  part  of  the  people  are  miserable,  and  it 
is  not  strange  that  whoever  will  come  to  them  with  prom 
ises  of  improvement,  should  obtain  ready  listeners  and 
obedient  followers.  How  easy  to  stir  up  a  wretched 
people,  by  reviving  the  memory  of  by-gone  wrongs,  and 
appealing  to  present  sufferings !  How  strong  the  argu 
ment  of  revenge  to  the  injured,  and  of  relief  to  the  op 
pressed  !  It  is  not  wonderful  that  such  a  man  as  O'Con- 
nel  —  even  though  selfish  and  unprincipled,  as  some 
contend  he  is  —  should  be  able  to  lead  the  suffering 
Irish  at  his  will.  He  is  at  least  a  man  of  extraordinary 
talent,  and  so  long  as  his  interest  and  that  of  Ireland 
may  coincide,  so  long  at  least  he  will  be  her  champion. 
He  may,  indeed,  be  the  occasion  of  lasting  good  to  his 
country.  He  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  man  of  extraordinary 
talent.  We  have  seen  him,  in  the  British  Commons, 
successfully  breasting  attacks  which  would  have  over 
borne  any  other  than  a  man  of  dauntless  intrepidity  and 
gigantic  power.  Such  a  man,  with  Ireland  at  his  back, 
is  no  mean  champion.  He  puts  his  shoulder  to  the 


222          TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

edifice  of  Irish  affairs,  as  did  Samson  to  the  pillars  of 
the  Philistine  temple,  and,  shaking  the  tottering  mass, 
says  to  the  British  Ministry,  "  Grant  me  what  I  ask,  or  I 
will  bring  down  the  whole  fabric  upon  your  heads!" 
Something  has  been  already  granted  to  Ireland,  in 
O'Connel's  day.  The  Catholic  disabilities  are  removed, 
and  the  church  tithes  will  ere  long  be  mitigated  or  sur 
rendered.  Whether  absenteeism,  the  greatest  curse  of 
Ireland,  will  cease,  is  a  more  doubtful  question. 

Beside  the  attachment  of  the  Irish  to  old  customs, 
their  acknowledged  pugnacity,  and  that  improvident 
restlessness,  which  helps  them  rather  to  get  into  trouble 
than  out  of  it,  —  common  fame  assigns  to  them  an 
other  peculiar  and  striking  characteristic;  I  mean  a 
laughable  confusion  of  ideas,  which  is  expressed  by  the 
word  bull,  a  term  derived  from  the  Dutch,  and  signify 
ing  a  blunder.  Whether  the  Irish  are  more  addicted 
than  others  to  this  species  of  mental  faux  pas,  there 
cannot  be  a  doubt  that  much  of  what  is  attributed  to 
them  is  imaginary,  and,  so  far  as  it  might  seem  to  imply 
any  intellectual  imperfection,  the  mere  invention  of  ill- 
natured  prejudice.  A  person  in  using  another  language 
than  his  own,  frequently  falls  into  mistake.  A  French 
man,  once,  speaking  to  Dr.  Johnson,  and  intending  to 
pay  him  a  compliment  by  alluding  to  the  Rambler,  which 
at  that  time  was  the  theme  of  universal  admiration,  ad 
dressed  him  as  Monsieur  Vagabond,  the  word  vagabond, 
in  French,  being  synonymous  with  rambler.  An  Italian 
gentleman,  in  speaking  to  an  American  lady,  and  intend 
ing  to  say  that  she  had  grown  somewhat  fleshy,  since  he 
had  seen  her,  said,  "  Madam,  you  have  gained  very 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  223 

much  beef  since  I  saw  you  !  "  Such  mistakes  as  these 
are  often  made  by  foreigners ;  but  good  taste  dictates 
that  they  should  be  passed  over  without  remark,  or  in 
that  polite  manner  in  which  a  Frenchman  is  said  to  have 
noticed  a  blunder  of  Dr.  Moore's.  "I  am  afraid,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  that  the  word  I  have  used  is  not  French." 
"  No,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "  it  is  not;  but  it  deserves 
to  be." 

Such  is  the  tolerance  we  extend  to  the  blunders  of  for 
eigners  speaking  a  language  with  which  they  are  imper 
fectly  acquainted,  unless  forsooth,  they  chance  to  be 
Hibernians.  In  that  case,  the  rule  is  reversed,  of  course. 
A  poor  Irishman,  once  being  called  upon  to  testify  in  an 
English  court,  was  suddenly  asked  by  the  judge,  "  Who 
and  what  are  you?"  Pat  was  fresh  from  Ballymony, 
and  his  knowledge  of  English  was  limited ;  but  he  did 
the  best  he  could.  "  Plase  your  honor,"  said  he,  "  I 
am  a  poor  widow !  "  —  meaning  widower.  Now  this  mis 
take  was  no  worse  than  we  hear  from  others  in  similar 
circumstances;  but  considering  that  the  blunder  was 
from  an  Irishman,  who  would  esteem  himself  restrained 
from  laughter,  by  any  polite  regard  to  the  man's  feelings, 
or  fail  to  discover  in  this  instance  an  unquestionable 
specimen  of  the  genuine  Irish  bull  1 

If  a  large  portion  of  imputed  Irish  bulls  are  thus  mere 
common-place  blunders,  such  as  all  foreigners  are  liable 
to  make  in  speaking  any  other  than  their  native  tongue, 
there  is  a  still  larger  portion,  that  are  attributed  to  the 
Irish,  which  may  claim  a  different  paternity.  Many  of 
our  common  proverbs,  to  which  we  have  given  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name,  are  in  fact  borrowed  from  other 


224  TRAITS     OF     IRISH    CHARACTER. 

countries.  "  You  carry  coals  to  Newcastle,"  might 
seem  to  claim  John  Bull  for  its  father ;  but  the  sentiment 
had  existed  for  ages  before  John  Bull  himself  was  born. 
"  You  carry  oil  to  a  city  of  olives,"  is  a  Hebrew  pro 
verb  that  has  been  in  use  for  hundreds  of  years ;  and 
"  You  carry  pepper  to  Hindostan,"  is  an  Eastern  adage 
of  perhaps  as  great  antiquity.  The  fact  is  nearly  the 
same  in  regard  to  many  of  the  pithy  sayings,  smart 
jokes,  and  witty  repartees,  which  are  in  common  use 
among  us,  and  are  imputed  to  well-known  individuals. 
A  large  part  of  Joe  Miller's  jokes,  pretending  to  have 
originated  with  Englishmen,  are  told  in  France,  Ger 
many,  Russia,  Turkey,  Persia,  and  perchance  China, 
and  in  like  manner  descend  from  generation  to  genera 
tion,  being  successively  attributed  to  such  characters  as 
they  may  suit.  Some  scandalous  story  being  told  of  Dr. 
Bellamy,  a  person  asked  him  if  it  were  true.  "  No," 
said  the  doctor;  "  some  fellow  invented  it,  and  laid  it  to 
me ;  but  the  rascal  knew  me."  It  is  this  suitableness  of 
an  anecdote  to  an  individual,  that  often  gives  it  much 
additional  point.  The  discreet  story-teller,  therefore, 
always  seeks  to  find  some  hero  to  whom  he  may  impute 
his  tale,  in  the  hope  that  he  may  give  to  it  this  adventi 
tious  zest.  An  American  was  once  telling  some  anec 
dote  of  Ethan  Allen,  of  Vermont,  to  a  German,  remark 
ing,  by  the  way,  that  it  must  be  true,  for  his  grandfather 
was  present,  and  witnessed  the  fact.  "It  is  a  good 
story,  certainly,"  said  the  German,  "  but  I  have  heard  the 
same  told  of  my  great  grandfather,  Baron  Von  Hotten- 
gen,  ever  since  I  was  a  boy." 

This  incident  throws  a  great  deal  of  light  upon  our 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  225 

subject.  Let  one  acquire  a  reputation  for  any  particu 
lar  thing,  and  every  anecdote  from  the  time  of  Confu 
cius  down  to  the  present  day,  that  may  seem  to  be  illus 
trative  of  the  qualities  of  this  individual,  is  told  of  him. 
Thus  it  is  that  Ethan  Allen  is  the  hero  of  many  wild 
adventures  that  he  never  achieved,  and  the  witty  Lord 
Norbury  is  credited  for  many  a  good  joke  that  he  never 
uttered.  There  is  nothing  like  starting  with  a  character 
beforehand,  even  though  it  may  be  the  outright  inven 
tion  of  ignorant  prejudice.  It  is  to  this  circumstance 
that  the  New-England  Yankee  is  indebted  for  the  credit, 
among  our  Southern  brethren,  of  inventing  wooden  nut 
megs,  oak-leaf  segars,  horses  with  false  tails,  and  all 
other  ingenious  modes  of  cheating  in  trade.  It  is  from 
this  circumstance  that  the  Irish  are  charged  with  every 
ludicrous  blunder,  to  whomsoever  it  may  properly  be 
long. 

If  the  Irish  were  disposed  to  retaliate,  it  would  be 
easy  to  find  means;  for  it  was  an  English  orator,  who 
said,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  that  the  proposed  tax  on 
leather  would  be  an  insupportable  burden  to  the  bare 
footed  peasantry  of  Ireland.  It  is  an  English  poet  who 
says, 

"  A  painted  vest  Prince  Vortigern  had  on, 
Which  from  a  naked  Pict  his  grandsire  won." 

It  was  a  French  philosopher,  M.  Joinville,  who,  be 
ing  prepared  to  observe  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  at  which 
the  king  was  to  be  present,  said  to  M.  Cassini,  "  Shall 
we  not  wait  for  the  king  before  we  begin  the  eclipse  1 " 
It  was  a  French  gentleman  who,  hearing  a  lady  exclaim 

20 


226  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

against  the  inhumanity  of  Buffon  in  dissecting  his  own 
cousin,  remarked,  "  But,  my  dear  madam,  the  man  whom 
he  dissected  was  dead ! "  It  was  also  a  Frenchman 
who,  being  asked  by  a  young  man  for  his  only  daughter 
in  marriage,  exclaimed,  "  No,  sir,  if  I  had  fifty  only 
daughters,  I  would  not  give  you  one  of  them! " 

Such  are  a  few  samples  of  genuine  bulls  of  other  than 
Irish  origin;  but  what  story-teller,  bringing  them  to 
market,  and  wishing  to  get  for  them  the  highest  price,  — 
a  hearty  laugh,  —  would  fail  of  attributing  them  to  the 
Irish? 

There  is  another  class  of  what  are  called  Irish  bulls, 
which  appear  to  me  to  be  specimens  of  wit  rather  than 
of  blunder.  There  was  once  an  Irish  sailor  by  the  name 
of  Larry,  who  sailed  for  many  years  on  board  a  little 
packet  that  plied  between  New  Haven  and  New  York. 
She  was  commanded  by  Captain  B******,  who,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  was  very  profane.  On  a  certain  occasion, 
Larry  was  summoned  before  the  Supreme  Court  of  Con 
necticut  as  a  witness.  When  he  was  called  upon  the 
stand,  a  doubt  arose  whether  this  Irish  Catholic  under 
stood  the  nature  of  an  oath.  At  length  the  judge  made 
the  inquiry  of  Larry,  who  replied  as  follows  :  —  "Is  it 
the  nathur  of  an  oath  ye  'd  like  to  know  ?  If  your 
honor  'd  sailed  with  Captain  Ben  B******  for  six  years, 
on  board  the  Polly  packet,  as  I  have  done,  ye  'd  not  be 
after  asking  that  question."  An  Irish  woman  lately 
applied  for  the  place  of  cook,  to  a  lady  of  Boston. 
When  the  terms  were  agreed  upon,  the  lady  asked  to 
whom  she  could  apply  for  the  woman's  character ;  to 
which  she  replied,  "  O,  my  character?  and  you  wish  to 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  227 

have  my  character?  Well,  I'm  thinking  nobody  can 
give  it  to  ye  so  well  as  myself."  These  and  a  multitude 
of  other  instances,  which  are  set  down  as  blunders,  ap 
proaching  to  bulls,  show  any  thing  but  confusion  of 
ideas.  They  spring  from  a  shrewd  wit,  veiled  beneath 
the  mask  of  simplicity. 

But  while  we  would  thus  maintain  that  a  large  share 
of  the  blunders  attributed  to  the  Irish  do  not  belong  to 
them ;  that  bulls,  and  good  ones  too,  are  often  committed 
by  those  in  whom  we  can  trace  no  Hibernian  blood ; 
and  that  many  of  those  which  are  actually  traceable  to 
Irish  origin  are  still,  only  such  mistakes  as  might  be 
expected  from  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  our  language, 
still  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  certain  confusion  of 
speech,  or  transposition  of  ideas,  is  common  to  the  Irish 
people.  A  part  of  even  this,  however,  arises  from  the 
inconsiderate  haste  with  which  they  speak.  An  Irish 
man  was  once  reading  a  newspaper,  during  the  twenty 
years'  war.  He  began  a  paragraph  as  follows  :  —  "  The 

French  have  taken  umbrage ."     He  did  not  stop  to 

finish  the  sentence,  but  exclaimed,  "  The  rascals  !  it 's 
the  first  British  port  they  have  got  yet !  "  Pat's  loqua 
city  often  leads  him  into  mistakes.  It  is  better,  in  his 
philosophy,  to  blunder  than  be  silent.  Some  people 
were  once  speaking  of  the  Sphinx.  "  Who's  that?" 
said  an  Irishman  present.  "It's  a  monster,  man," 
said  the  person  addressed.  "A  Munster  man  ? "  said 
the  other ;  "I  thought  he  must  be  from  Connaught, 
for  I  think  I  have  heard  of  the  family  there ! "  The 
Irish  generally  speak  as  they  act,  upon  the  first  impulse. 
They  begin  to  express  a  thought  the  moment  it  strikes 


228  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

them,  and  often  before  they  fully  understand  it.  "  Look 
ere  you  leap,"  is  a  proverb  which  they  reverse  in  prac 
tice.  "  Think  twice  and  speak  once,"  they  also  follow 
by  the  rule  of  contrary.  Their  mind  is  a  mirror,  and 
the  ready  tongue  freely  discloses  all  the  figures,  either 
confused  or  distinct,  that  may  pass  before  it. 

But  let  us  now  turn  from  these  drawbacks  in  the 
Irish  character,  to  the  consideration  of  more  grateful 
traits.  Who,  for  instance,  has  not  been  struck  with  the 
natural  eloquence  of  these  people  ?  We  need  not  go  to 
Grattan,  Curran,  or  Burke,  for  specimens  of  this  gift  of 
genius.  The  rudest  Irish  laborer  among  us,  seems  to 
be  endowed  with  it.  If  an  Irishman  really  sets  about 
persuading  you  of  a  thing,  he  seldom  fails  of  his  object, 
unless,  indeed,  it  be  to  prove  that  black  is  white  It  is 
curious  to  see  how  an  Irishman  can  embellish  the  most 
naked  idea,  and  amplify  the  commonest  topic.  There 
is  a  picture  of  a  beggar,  belonging  to  the  Athenaeum  of 
Boston,  painted  by  an  artist  of  New  York.  It  is  the 
portrait  of  an  Irishman,  who  presented  himself  one  day 
at  the  artist's  door,  and  begged  for  alms.  "  Walk  in," 
said  the  painter,  "  and  tell  me  your  name."  "  My  name, 
sir,"  said  the  beggar,  "  is  Patrick  McGruger,  and  it's 
true  what  I  tell  ye."  "  But,"  said  the  artist,  "  why 
do  n't  you  go  to  work,  instead  of  begging  about  the 
streets  in  this  fashion?"  "Why  do  n't  I  go  to  work, 
your  honor  ?  and  it 's  that  ye  'd  like  to  know  ?  When 
ye 're  threescore  years  and  ten,  like  myself,  ye '11  be 
more  ready  to  answer  such  a  question,  than  to  ask  it." 
"  Well,  well,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  artist,  "  you  can 
at  least  sit  down  and  let  me  paint  your  portrait."  "  Is 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  229 

it  my  handsome  portrait  you're  wanting?  and  do  you 
wish  me  to  sit  down  there  and  let  you  paint  it?  Faith, 
that 's  a  thing  I  can  do,  though  I  was  not  brought  up  to 
it.  The  time  has  been,  your  honor,  when  Patrick 
McGruger  could  do  better  than  sit  for  the  portrait  of  a 
beggar.  But  I  must  do  what  I  may ;  for  these  old  limbs 
ask  to  be  fed,  though  they  refuse  to  work." 

The  author  of  the  "  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish 
Life,"  furnishes  us  with  a  fictitious,  but  characteristic 
specimen  of  this  natural  eloquence  of  the  common  peo 
ple,  in  a  poor  woman  who  mourns  at  a  wake  over  the 
dead  body  of  her  patron,  Godman  Lee.  She  was  seated 
on  the  floor,  her  eyes  closed,  her  hands  clasped  around 
her  knees,  while  in  a  low  and  mournful  tone  she  spoke 
as  follows : 

"  Kind  and  gentle  were  you,  and  lived  through  sor 
row  and  tears,  frost  and  snow,  with  an  open  house  and 
an  open  heart.  The  sun  of  heaven  shone  on  you,  and 
you  reflected  its  warmth  on  others.  The  flower  of  the 
valley  saw  and  loved  you  ;  and  though  she  is  of  a  strange 
country,  you  taught  her  to  love  the  green  and  weeping 
island,  to  dry  the  widow's  tears,  to  feed  the  orphan,  to 
clothe  the  naked.  O,  why  did  you  die,  and  leave  be 
hind  you  all  the  good  things  of  life?  and  above  all,  the 
beautiful  boy  who  will  be  the  oak  of  the  forest  yet  ?  O, 
the  justice  and  the  mildness  were  you  of  the  country's 
side !  and  while  grass  grows,  and  waters  run,  we  will 
mourn  for  Godman  Lee.  The  beggar  walked  from  his 
door  with  a  full  sack ;  and  he  turned  wormwood  into 
sweetness  with  his  smile.  But  now  his  wife  is  desolate, 
and  his  full  and  plentiful  home  has  no  master  ? " 

20* 


230  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

The  wit  of  the  Irish  is  no  less  natural  and  striking 
than  their  eloquence.  That  very  transposition  of  ideas 
which  sometimes  produces  a  bull  or  blunder,  not  unfre- 
quently  startles  us  as  if  with  the  scintillations  of  humor. 
"  What  are  you  doing  there?  "  said  one  Irishman  to  an 
other,  who  was  digging  away  the  dirt  before  a  cellar 
window.  "  I  'm  going  to  open  this  window,"  said  Pat 
rick,  "  to  let  the  dark  out  of  the  cellar."  A  few  years 
ago,  as  several  persons  were  standing  on  a  wharf  at 
Liverpool,  one  of  them  slipped  into  the  dock.  The  first 
individual  to  move  for  the  relief  of  the  drowning  man, 
was  an  Irishman,  who  plunged  into  the  water,  and  after 
a  severe  struggle  rescued  the  person  from  the  waves. 
When  the  man  had  at  length  recovered  from  his  duck 
ing,  he  took  some  change  out  of  his  pocket,  and  select 
ing  a  sixpence,  handed  it  to  the  Irishman  who  had  saved 
his  life.  The  latter  looked  an  instant  at  the  sixpence 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  then  slowly  measured  the 
individual  with  his  eye  whom  he  had  rescued ;  and  ob 
serving  that  he  was  a  very  thin  and  small  man,  he  put 
the  money  into  his  pocket,  and  turned  on  his  heel,  say 
ing,  significantly,  "  It 's  enough !  " 

But  the  recollection  of  my  readers  will  readily  furnish 
them  with  abundant  specimens  of  Irish  wit,  far  less 
questionable  than  these.  Wit  is,  in  fact,  the  whole 
stock  in  trade  of  one  half  the  Irish  nation ;  and  though 
it  often  leaves  them  destitute  of  a  dinner,  it  seldom  fails 
to  make  even  destitution  and  want,  the  occasion  of  its 
merry  sallies. 

It  is  perhaps  this  playfulness  of  fancy,  that  is  partly 
the  source  of  that  cheerfulness  which  forms  a  remarka- 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  231 

ble  characteristic  of  the  Irish  people,  "  Sufficient  for 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  is  an  injunction  literally 
construed  and  implicitly  obeyed.  Cheerfulness  seems 
indeed  to  be  so  natural  to  the  Irish,  as  hardly  to  possess 
the  self-denying  ingredients  of  virtue.  Not  even  poverty, 
want,  or  oppression,  can  wholly  shut  out  the  genial 
light  of  cheerfulness  from  an  Irishman's  cabin.  If  it 
come  not  in  at  the  door  or  the  window,  fancy  will  strike 
out  the  spark,  hope  cherish  it,  wit  blow  it  into  a  blaze. 
There  is  something  even  pathetic  in  the  instances  that 
are  related  of  Irish  wit  and  cheerfulness  in  the  midst  of 
poverty  and  destitution.  A  recent  traveller  in  Ireland 
tells  us,  that  on  one  occasion  he  went  to  an  Irish  cabin, 
where  he  found  a  peasant  and  his  numerous  family 
crowded  into  the  only  room  in  the  building,  which  was 
scarcely  more  than  twelve  feet  square.  In  one  corner 
lay  a  pig ;  it  being  the  custom  among  these  poor  people 
to  fatten  one  of  these  animals  every  six  months,  for  the 
purpose  of  paying  their  rent.  The  traveller  describes 
the  hut  as  exhibiting  the  most  naked  scene  of  relentless 
poverty  that  could  be  imagined.  The  gaunt  form  of 
the  peasant,  the  sunken  cheek  of  the  wife,  the  pallid 
countenances  of  the  children,  all  showed  that  the 
craving  wants  of  nature  were  but  half  supplied.  But 
the  pig  presented  a  remarkable  contrast  to  this  general 
aspect  of  want  and  wo.  There  it  lay,  luxuriously  im 
bedded  in  aristocratic  straw,  sleek,  round,  and  pampered. 
As  the  stranger  entered  the  hut,  it  did  not  even  conde 
scend  to  rise,  but  seemed  to  imitate,  by  a  delicate  and 
affected  grunt,  the  sentiment  of  the  fat  lady  in  the  play, 
"  Do  n't  be  rude,  for  really  my  nerves  won't  bear  it !  " 


232  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

The  stranger  felt  his  heart  touched  at  this  scene,  for  it 
seemed  to  show  that,  day  by  day,  the  food  which  the  pea 
sant  and  his  children  needed,  was  doled  out  to  this 
pampered  animal,  to  provide  for  the  payment  of  the  rent, 
and  thus  insure  a  shelter  for  the  family.  At  length  he 
said  to  the  Irishman,  "  Pray,  why  do  you  keep  this 
creature  in  the  house ;  would  not  he  do  as  well  out  of 
doors?"  "Sure,"  said  the  peasant,  with  a  smile, 
"  your  honor  would  not  turn  out  the  gintleman  what 
pays  the  rint?"  Thus  it  is  that  the  Irishman's  cheer 
fulness  is  made  to  solace  his  poverty ;  thus  it  is  that  the 
diamond  can  illuminate  the  darkness ;  that  the  playful 
light  of  a  heavenly  virtue  may  be  drawn  down  to  earth, 
even  by  the  iron  of  which  misery  forges  its  fetters. 

I  have  now  given  a  feeble  and  imperfect  sketch  of 
certain  characteristics  of  the  Irish  people ;  but  I  could 
wish  that  it  might  not  wholly  pass  without  practical 
benefits.  I  have  presented  this  nation  as  of  great  an 
tiquity,  and  as  linking  itself,  by  a  remarkable  power  of 
self-perpetuation,  with  those  nations  which  pass  before 
us  like  mighty  shadows  in  the  morning  dream  of  histo 
ry.  I  have  presented  them  as  at  various  periods  dis 
playing  a  power  of  genius  which  commanded  the  admi 
ration  of  mankind.  I  have  presented  them  as  blemished 
indeed,  with  imperfections  in  their  social  character, 
but  as  possessing  indisputable  claims  to  sympathy  and 
respect. 

In  dealing  with  the  Irish,  therefore,  I  would  ask  my 
countrymen  to  recollect  the  position  in  which  we  Amer 
icans  stand  toward  the  Irish.  We  are  of  English  de 
scent,  and  share  in  the  events  of  English  history.  If 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.          233 

we  have  our  tales  to  tell  of  Bloody  Mary,  the  Catholic, 
they  have  theirs  of  Henry  VIIL,  Elizabeth,  and  Crom 
well,  all  true  Protestants,  but  as  fell  religious  persecutors 
as  ever  disgraced  a  sceptre.  The  Irish  have  been 
taught  by  history,  tradition,  experience,  to  expect  in 
the  enemies  of  their  religion,  the  enemies  of  their  peace 
and  prosperity.  Protestant,  with  them,  has  too  often 
been  found  synonymous  with  oppressor.  Too  often 
Protestantism  has  come  to  them  in  the  unattractive 
guise  of  tyranny,  tithes,  and  taxation.  These  emigrants 
come  to  our  country,  then,  with  a  lynx-eyed  prejudice, 
founded  in  their  own  bitter  experience,  and  that  of 
their  fathers,  and  their  fathers'  fathers.  How  will  you 
deal  with  it  1  Allow  me  very  briefly  to  suggest  one  or 
two  practical  points. 

Let  us  dismiss  that  narrow-minded  maxim,  which 
teaches  that  the  Irish  are  a  wrong-headed  people,  who 
can  only  be  abused  out  of  their  errors.  Let  us  re 
collect  that  St.  Patrick  introduced  Christianity  into 
Ireland  in  thirty  years,  and  that  too  in  the  face  of  pa 
ganism,  and  by  persuasion  only  ;  while  the  whole  coer 
cive  power  of  England  since  the  time  of  Henry  VIII. 
has  been  vainly  exerted  to  convert  this  nation  to  Pro 
testantism.  Remember  that  St.  Patrick,  by  the  mere 
magic  of  kind  persuasion,  did  that  in  thirty  years  which 
the  defied  and  baffled  throne  of  Britain  has  not  been 
able  to  accomplish  by  force  in  three  hundred  years. 

Let  us  by  no  means  join  in  the  popular  outcry  against 
foreigners  coming  to  our  country,  and  partaking  of  its 
privileges.  They  will  come,  whether  we  will  or  no  ; 
and  is  it  wise  to  meet  them  with  inhospitality,  and  thus 


234  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

turn  their  hearts  against  us?  Let  us  rather  receive 
them  as  friends,  and  give  them  welcome  to  our  country. 
Let  us  rather  say :  "  The  harvest  before  us  is  indeed 
great,  and  the  laborers  are  few :  come,  go  with  us,  and 
we  will  do  thee  good."  Our  hills,  valleys,  and  rivers 
stretch  from  ocean  to  ocean,  belting  the  entire  continent 
of  the  New  World ;  and  over  this  rich  and  boundless 
domain,  Providence  has  poured  the  atmosphere  of  lib 
erty.  Let  these  poor  sufferers  come  and  breathe  it 
freely.  Let  our  country  be  the  asylum  of  the  oppressed 
of  all  lands.  Let  those  who  come,  bent  down  with  the 
weight  of  European  tithes  and  taxation,  here  throw  off 
the  load  and  stand  erect  in  freedom.  Let  those  who 
have  dwelt  in  the  chill  shadows  of  the  Castle  of  Igno 
rance,  erected  by  kings,  and  fortified  by  priestcraft, 
come  here,  and  be  warmed  by  the  free  sunlight  of 
knowledge.  Let  those  whose  limbs  have  been  cramped 
by  chains,  those  whose  minds  have  been  fretted  by  he 
reditary  error,  come  here,  and,  seeing  happiness,  be 
permitted  freely  to  pursue  it. 

Let  us,  at  least,  extend  the  hand  of  encouragement 
and  sympathy  to  the  Irish.  Their  story  for  centuries 
is  but  a  record  of  sorrows  and  oppressions.  They  have 
been  made  to  feel,  not  only  how  cruel,  but  how  univer 
sal  are  the  miseries  which  follow  a  bad  government ; 
for  government  is  as  pervading  in  its  influence  as  the 
air  we  breathe.  In  civilized  society,  we  must  eat  and 
drink,  and  wear,  and  have  shelter,  and  hold  intercourse 
with  our  fellow-men ;  and  government  will  come  through 
bolted  doors  and  grated  windows,  and  reach  us  through 
these  interests.  The  tyrant  will  come  in  and  visit  us 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.          235 

at  our  homes,  dimming  the  very  light  of  our  firesides. 
Not  only  do  we  feel  his  taxes,  and  find  our  industry 
cursed,  but  the  minds  of  our  children  are  perhaps  in 
jured  —  degraded  or  contaminated  —  by  the  vices  which 
injustice  and  evil  example,  from  high  stations,  inculcate 
upon  society.  And  from  these  miseries  there  is  no  es 
cape  but  death.  No  condition  can  shield  a  man  from 
mischiefs  so  injurious  and  so  pervading.  As  well  might 
the  air  become  contagious,  and  the  springs  and  rivers 
be  tainted,  as  bad  government  become  established  over 
a  nation.  Yet  poor  Ireland  has  been  subject  to  such  a 
condition  for  ages  ;  and  even  if  her  children  leave  their 
native  soil  they  are  obliged  to  carry  with  them  the  bitter 
memory  of  their  country's  wrongs.  A  people  of  quick 
and  ardent  sympathies,  of  a  poetical  and  romantic  love 
of  country,  they  are,  in  exile,  ever  looking  back  to  the 
Emerald  Isle,  with  mingled  sorrow  and  sickness  of 
heart.  How  heavy  is  the  burden  which  such  bosoms 
must  bear,  as  they  wander  over  distant  lands,  in  the 
bitter  consciousness  that  their  country  is  the  desponding 
victim  of  oppression  !  Shall  not  those  who  come  to 
our  shores  afflicted  with  such  sorrows,  find  in  the  friends 
and  sharers  of  freedom,  both  welcome  and  release? 
And  let  us  beware  of  adding  to  their  wrongs.  Let  us 
remember  that  there  is  other  tyranny  than  that  of  chains 
and  fetters — the  invisible  but  cruel  tyranny  of  opinion 
and  prejudice.  Let  us  beware  how  we  exercise  this 
towards  the  Irish ;  for  it  is  wicked  in  itself,  and  doubly 
mischievous  in  its  tendency.  It  injures  both  its  subject 
and  its  object,  and  brings  no  counterbalancing  good. 
Let  us  be  especially  guarded  against  two  sources  of 


236  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

prejudice,  to  which  we  are  peculiarly  liable.  In  the 
first  place,  in  our  personal  experience,  we  are  familiar 
with  the  most  ignorant  and  unfortunate  of  the  Irish  na 
tion.  We  see,  in  servile  employments,  those  who  have 
been  exposed  to  all  the  debasing  influences  that  degrade 
mankind.  Is  it  fair  to  draw  from  these  a  standard  by 
which  to  judge  the  whole  people?  Let  us  rather  ask 
ourselves  where  there  is  another  nation,  who  have  been 
so  long  trampled  down  by  oppression ;  who  have  been 
born  in  poverty  and  nursed  in  adversity  ;  who  have  in 
herited  little  from  the  past  but  sorrow,  and  can  bequeath 
nothing  to  the  future  but  hope ;  —  where  is  there  a 
people  so  wronged,  that  has  yet  preserved  so  many  vir 
tues  ?  How  gallantly,  indeed,  do  Irish  wit,  and  cheer 
fulness,  and  hospitality,  and  patriotism,  ride  on  the 
wreck  of  individual  hopes,  and  sparkle  through  the  very 
waves  of  adversity  ! 

Let  us  beware  of  prejudice  from  another  source. 
We  read  English  books,  papers,  and  pamphlets.  We 
read  them  under  the  inspiring  influence  of  Britain's 
great  name.  Say  what  we  may  of  that  country,  the 
British  empire  is  a  mighty  power,  and  her  literature  is 
even  more  potent  than  her  armies  and  her  navies.  It 
is  by  this  she  casts  a  spell  over  the  world,  and  binds  the 
nations  in  moral  fetters.  We  see  in  the  English  people 
nearly  the  same  exclusive  love  of  country  that  burned 
in  the  bosom  of  the  ancient  Roman.  This  spirit  an 
imates  every  offspring  of  the  English  press.  It  is  this 
which  leads  them  to  vindicate  the  tyranny  of  the  gov 
ernment  in  Ireland,  by  portraying  the  Irish  as  an  un 
tamable  race,  deaf  to  reason,  and  only  to  be  ruled  by 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  237 

the  harsh  inflictions  of  power.  Let  us,  Americans, 
see  that  our  minds  are  not  driven  from  the  moorings  of 
justice,  by  this  sinister  current  in  which  they  are  placed. 
Influenced  by  such  considerations  as  these,  let  us  by  all 
fair  means  bring  about  a  good  understanding  between 
the  Irish  emigrants  and  society.  Let  us  deal  gently 
with  them,  even  with  their  errors ;  —  and  thus  we  shall 
win  their  confidence ;  thus  they  may  be  persuaded  to 
take  council  of  the  good,  the  wise,  and  the  virtuous, 
and  not  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  those  who 
would  flatter  their  vices  and  minister  to  their  passions, 
but  to  use  and  abuse  them. 

Let  this  reasonable  and  just  policy  mark  our  conduct 
towards  the  grown-up  Irish  among  us ;  and  in  regard 
to  their  children,  let  us  individually  and  collectively  use 
our  best  endeavors  to  bestow  upon  them  the  benefits  of 
education.  But  let  us  remember  that  even  an  attempt 
to  educate  the  Irish  will  fail,  if  it  be  not  founded  in  a 
recognition  of  the  elements  of  their  national  character, 
quick  perception,  a  keen  sense  of  justice,  and  ready 
resentment  of  wrong.  If  over  these,  prejudice,  suspi 
cion,  and  pride,  have  thrown  their  shadows,  let  us  adapt 
the  instruction  we  would  offer  to  the  light  they  can  bear. 
In  this  way  a  numerous  people  may  be  redeemed  from 
misery  to  happiness,  and  rendered  a  blessing  instead  of 
a  curse  to  our  country.  Let  us  deal  thus  with  those 
Irish  who  have  left  their  native  land  to  find  a  dwelling 
among  us ;  and  in  regard  to  the  millions  that  remain 
at  home,  in  the  "  green  and  weeping  island,"  let  us 
hope  for  the  speedy  dawn  of  a  brighter  and  better  day. 
A  youthful  queen  now  sways  the  sceptre  of  Britain ; 

21 


238  TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER. 

and  what  may  not  humanity  hope  from  the  generosity 
of  youth  and  the  heavenly  charity  of  woman! 

In  closing  this  faint  and  feeble,  but  sincere  appeal 
in  behalf  of  the  Irish  people,  I  cannot  feel  that  I  urge 
a  doubtful  claim,  or  seek  to  enforce  an  ungracious  suit. 
Might  I  not  foot  up  a  long  account,  and  confidently  ask 
its  liquidation  on  the  general  ground  of  even-handed 
justice  ?  Who  is  there  that  has  not  read  the  pensive 
tale  of  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  and  felt  his  heart  both 
softened  and  purified  by  the  perusal  1  Who  is  there 
that  has  not  listened  to  the  entrancing  melody  of  that 
"  Traveller," 

"  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow," 

who  has  painted  pictures  of  life,  beauty,  and  truth,  on 
the  soul,  that  will  live  as  long  as  the  heart  retains  its 
affections,  or  the  imagination  its  enamel  1  Who  is 
there  that  has  not  again,  again,  and  yet  again,  forgotten 
the  cares  and  vexations  of  life  in  the  story  of  the  simple- 
hearted  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield "  and  his  family,  and 
gathered  from  it  more  touching  and  effective  lessons  of 
virtue,  than  were  ever  found  in  the  philosophy  of  the 
schools?  Who  is  there  that  will  not  acknowledge  a 
debt  to  the  author  of  these  works,  and,  if  the  appeal 
were  made,  would  not  heartily  repay  it  to  the  land  that 
gave  him  birth?  Who  can  measure  the  debt  of  grati 
tude  that  the  world  owes  to  such  a  man  as  GOLDSMITH  ? 
for  it  is  the  influence  of  spirits  like  his,  that  aids  in  the 
redemption  of  mankind  from  barbarism,  that  civilizes 
society,  that  ennobles  the  heart,  gives  to  love  its  purity, 
to  friendship  its  truth,  to  patriotism  its  fervor,  to  home 


TRAITS     OF     IRISH     CHARACTER.  239 

its  comfort,  to  human  nature  its  dignity,  to  life  its  charm ! 
If  the  pleasure  this  single  individual  has  excited,  the 
virtue  he  has  planted  and  cherished,  the  good  he  has 
done  to  his  fellow-man,  were  heaped  up  in  one  monu 
mental  pile,  the  mighty  pyramid  would  reach  to  the 
skies ;  and  its  fitting  inscription  would  be,  TO  THE 

MEMORY  OP  AN  IRISHMAN,  WHOSE  GENIUS  WAS  A  PER 
SONIFICATION  OF  THE  IRISH  CHARACTER,  AND  WHOSE 
LIFE  WAS  A  FIT  EMBLEM  OF  IRELAND'S  FORTUNES  : 
HE  LIVED  MINISTERING  TO  THE  HAPPINESS  OF  OTHERS, 
HIMSELF  THE  VICTIM  OF  SORROWS  THAT  MAY  BE  FELT, 
BUT  CANNOT  BE  REHEARSED! 


CHINGFORD   CHURCH. 

BY  the  London  road,  not  far  from  town, 
Old  Chingford  Church  looks  frowning  down  ; 
O'er  buttress  and  tower  the  ivy  is  creeping, 
In  its  lone  dark  aisles  the  weary  are  sleeping. 
At  a  bow-shot's  length  flows  a  deep,  smooth  stream, 
And  it  ever  seems  of  that  church  to  dream ; 
If  you  look  in  its  depths  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
Or  ponder  the  waves  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
With  its  mantle  of  ivy  the  church  is  there, 
As  things  are  in  dreams, — more  misty  and  fair. 
Ay,  and  thy  memory,  when  once  thou  hast  seen 
That  gray  old  church  in  its  vesture  of  green, 
Like  the  river  that  flows  at  its  foot,  will  give 
Its  image  back  in  colors  that  live ;  . 
Will  mirror  that  ivy  which  greenly  lingers, 
O'er  window  and  wall  with  creeping  fingers, 
And  seeks  to  hide  in  its  mantle  of -leaves, 
The  moss  that  time  o'er  the  buttresses  weaves. 

In  days  of  yore,  the  green  hill-side 
By  Chingford  Church  was  the  fairy's  pride ; 
When  the  moon  was  bright  and  the  blossoms  sweet, 
They  brushed  the  dew  with  their  airy  feet  ; 
They  played  mid  the  rays  that  fell  on  the  brook, 
And  the  blushing  waves  with  their  kisses  shook : 


CHINGFORD     CHURCH. 


241 


By  the  sculptured  stone  where  the  weary  slept, 
They  hovered  light,  or  perchance  they  wept. 
But  the  times  are  changed,  and  the  whizzing  car, 
On  pinions  of  steam  flies  by  with  a  jar ; 
By  night  and  by  day  the  rumbling  wheel 
Of  the  stage-coach  plies,  in  its  restless  zeal ; 
And  every  still  nook  in  old  Britain's  bound, 
By  the  noisy  track  of  MacAdam  is  found. 
So  the  fairies,  scared  from  their  chosen  haunts, 
Hold  not  on  the  greensward  their  merry  dance ; 
But  timid  and  startled,  they  shrink  from  the  sight, 
And  come  no  more  but  in  visions  of  night. 


21* 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MISFORTUNE. 

THERE  once  lived  in  a  village  near  London,  a  youth 
by  the  name  of  Raymond.  His  parents  died  when  he 
was  young,  leaving  him  an  ample  estate.  He  was 
educated  at  one  of  the  universities,  travelled  for  two 
years  on  the  continent,  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four, 
returned  to  the  paternal  mansion  and  established  him 
self  there.  Being  the  richest  person  in  the  village,  and 
the  descendant  and  representative  of  a  family  of  some 
antiquity,  he  became  the  chief  personage  of  the  place. 
Beside  all  this,  he  was  esteemed  remarkably  handsome, 
possessed  various  accomplishments,  and  had  powers  of 
pleasing  almost  amounting  to  fascination.  He  was, 
therefore,  courted  and  flattered  by  the  whole  neighbor 
hood,  and  even  lords  and  ladies  of  rank  and  fashion  did 
not  disdain  to  visit  him.  The  common  people  around, 
of  course,  looked  up  to  him ;  for  in  England,  where  dis 
tinctions  in  society  are  established  by  government,  and 
where  all  are  taught  to  consider  such  distinctions  as 
right,  the  great,  as  they  are  called,  are  usually  almost 
worshipped  by  the  little. 

Surrounded  by  luxuries,  and  flattered  by  every 
body,  it  would  seem  that  Raymond  might  have  been 
happy ;  but  he  was  of  a  discontented  turn,  and  though 
for  a  time,  these  things  pleased  him,  he  grew  tired  of 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    MISFORTUNE.  243 

them  at  last,  and  wished  for  some  other  sources  of  plea 
sure  and  excitement.  At  the  university  he  had  imbibed 
a  taste  for  reading ;  but  he  could  not  now  sit  down  to  its 
quiet  and  gentle  pleasures.  He  had  been  in  the  gay 
society  of  London  and  Paris,  and  had  drunk  the  cup  of 
pleasure  so  deeply,  that  nothing  but  its  dregs  remained. 

Raymond  was  therefore  restless,  discontented,  and 
miserable,  while  in  the  possession  of  all  that  usually 
excites  the  envy  of  mankind.  He  was  rich  beyond  his 
utmost  wishes ;  he  was  endowed  with  manly  beauty  and 
the  most  perfect  health;  he  was  admired,  nattered,  cher 
ished,  and  sought  after ;  yet  he  was  unhappy.  The  rea 
son  of  this  he  did  not  know ;  indeed,  he  did  not  look 
very  deeply  into  the  matter,  but  went  on  from  one  scene 
to  another,  seeking  enjoyment,  but  turning  with  distaste 
and  disappointment  from  every  thing.  He  was,  how 
ever,  too  proud  to  let  the  world  see  his  real  condition ; 
he  kept  up  a  fair  outside,  sustained  his  establishment 
with  magnificence,  and  dressed  himself,  when  he  went 
abroad,  with  elegance  and  care;  he  affected  gayety  in 
company,  often  led  in  the  dance,  was  ever  foremost  in 
the  chase,  and  was  usually  the  life  of  the  circle  wherever 
he  went. 

There  were  few,  perhaps  none,  who  imagined  that, 
under  this  aspect  of  prosperity,  the  canker  of  discontent 
was  gnawing  at  the  heart.  Yet  such  was  the  fact :  of 
all  the  people  of  the  village,  Raymond  was  esteemed  the 
most  happy  and  fortunate ;  but  he  was  in  truth  the  veri 
est  wretch  in  the  place.  And  though  this  may  doubt 
less  seem  a  rare  instance,  yet  we  have  good  reason  to 
believe  that  often,  very  often,  there  is  deep  misery,  un- 


244  THE    SCHOOL    OF    MISFORTUNE. 

told  and  unsuspected,  in  the  great  house,  where  only 
elegance  and  luxury  are  seen  by  the  world  at  large; 
very  often  the  beggar  at  the  door  would  not  exchange 
conditions  with  the  lord  of  the  lofty  hall,  if  he  could 
know  his  real  condition. 

Raymond  had  now  reached  the  age  of  thirty  years, 
and  instead  of  finding  that  his  condition,  or  the  state  of 
his  feelings  improved,  they  seemed  rather  to  grow 
worse.  He  became  more  and  more  unhappy.  Every 
morning  when  he  rose,  it  was  with  a  kind  of  dread  as 
to  how  he  should  contrive  to  kill  time,  to  get  through  the 
day,  to  endure  his  own  listlessness,  or  dissatisfaction,  or 
disgust.  The  idea  of  setting  about  some  useful  or  hon 
orable  employment,  that  would  occupy  his  thoughts,  give 
excitement  to  his  faculties,  and  bring  satisfaction  to  his 
conscience,  never  entered  his  head.  He  had  never  been 
taught  that  no  one  has  a  right  to  lead  an  idle  or  useless 
life,  and  that  no  man  can  be  happy  who  attempts  to  live 
only  for  himself. 

It  is  indeed  a  common  opinion  among  rich  people 
that  they  are  under  no  obligation  to  engage  in  the  active 
duties  of  life ;  that  they  are  not  bound  to  labor,  or  toil, 
or  make  sacrifices  for  society;  that  they  are  in  fact 
privileged  classes,  and  may  spend  their  time  and  money 
with  an  exclusive  regard  to  themselves.  Raymond  was 
educated  in  this  foolish  and  narrow-minded  opinion ;  and 
here  was  the  real  foundation  of  all  his  misery.  Could 
he  only  have  discovered  that  happiness  is  to  be  found  in 
exercising  our  faculties ;  in  using  the  means,  and  em 
ploying  the  power,  that  Providence  has  placed  in  OUP 
hands,  in  some  useful  pursuit,  and  in  this  way  alone — he 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    MISFORTUNE.  245 

might  have  been  saved  from  a  gulf  of  misery,  into  which 
he  was  soon  plunged. 

At  this  period,  which  was  soon  after  the  revolution 
ary  war,  America  was  attracting  great  attention,  and 
Raymond  having  met  with  one  of  his  college  mates  who 
had  been  there,  and  who  gave  him  glowing  accounts  of 
it,  he  suddenly  took  the  determination  to  sell  his  estates 
and  set  out  for  America,  with  the  view  of  spending  the 
remainder  of  his  days  there.  He  knew  little  of  the 
country,  but  supposed  it  to  be  the  contrast  in  every 
thing  to  that  in  which  he  had  lived,  and  thinking  that 
any  change  must  bring  enjoyment,  he  sold  his  property, 
and  taking  the  amount  in  gold  and  silver,  set  out  with 
it  in  a  ship  bound  for  New  York. 

The  vessel  had  a  prosperous  voyage  till  she  arrived 
in  sight  of  the  highlands  near  the  entrance  of  the  har 
bor  of  New  York.  It  was  then  that,  just  at  evening, 
smart  gusts  began  to  blow  off  the  land,  and  the  captain 
showed  signs  of  anxiety,  lest  he  should  not  be  able  to 
get  in  before  the  storm,  which  he  feared  was  coming, 
should  arise.  The  passengers  had  dressed  themselves 
to  go  on  shore,  and  most  of  them,  anxious  to  see  friends, 
or  tired  of  the  sea,  were  anticipating  their  arrival  with 
delight.  Raymond,  however,  was  an  exception  to  all 
this.  He  went  upon  the  deck,  looked  a  few  moments 
gloomily  at  the  land  that  was  visible  low  down  in  the 
horizon,  and  then  retired  to  the  cabin,  where  he  gave 
himself  up  to  his  accustomed  train  of  discontented  and 
bitter  thoughts. 

"  I,  alone,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  of  all  this  company, 
seem  to  be  miserable;  all  are  looking  forward  with  plea- 


246  THE    SCHOOL    OF    MISFORTUNE. 

sant  anticipations  of  some  happiness,  some  enjoyment 
in  store  for  them.  But  for  me  —  what  have  I  to  hope? 
I  have  no  friends  here ;  this  is  a  land  of  strangers  to  me. 
It  is  true,  I  have  wealth ;  but  how  worthless  is  it !  I 
have  tried  its  virtues  in  England,  and  found  that  it 
could  not  give  me  pleasure.  Wealth  cannot  bestow 
happiness  upon  me ;  and  I  should  not  mourn  if  every 
farthing  of  it  were  lost  in  the  sea.  Life  is  indeed  to  me 
a  burden.  Why  is  it  that  everything  is  happy  but  my 
self?  Why  do  I  see  all  these  people  rejoicing  at  the 
sight  of  land,  while  I  am  distressed  at  the  idea  of  once 
more  mingling  with  mankind?  Alas!  life  is  to  me  a 
burden,  and  the  sooner  I  part  with  it  the  better !  " 

While  Raymond  was  pursuing  this  train  of  reflec 
tions  in  the  cabin,  the  heaving  of  the  vessel  increased  ; 
the  creaking  of  the  timbers  grew  louder,  and  the  deck 
became  a  scene  of  uproar,  occasioned  by  running  to 
and  fro,  the  rattling  of  cordage,  and  the  clanking  of 
heavy  irons.  The  commands  of  the  captain  grew 
rapid  and  stern,  and  the  thumping  of  the  billows 
against  the  sides  of  the  ship,  made  her  shiver  from  the 
rudder  to  the  bowsprit. 

Raymond  was  so  buried  in  his  own  gloomy  reflec 
tions,  that  he  did  not  for  some  time  notice  these  events ; 
but  at  last  the  din  became  so  tremendous,  that  he  start 
ed  to  his  feet  and  ran  upon  deck.  The  scene  that  now 
met  his  eyes  was  indeed  fearful.  It  was  dark,  but  not 
so  much  so  as  to  prevent  the  land  from  being  visible  at 
a  little  distance ;  the  wind  was  blowing  with  the  force 
of  a  hurricane,  and  urging  the  vessel,  now  perfectly  at 
its  mercy,  into  the  boiling  waves  that  fretted  and  foam- 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    MISFORTUNE.  247 

ed  along  its  edge.  The  captain  had  given  up  all  hope 
of  saving  the  ship,  and  the  passengers  were  kneeling 
and  throwing  up  their  hands  in  wildness  and  despair. 

Raymond  was  perfectly  calm.  The  thought  of 
losing  his  wealth  crossed  his  mind,  but  it  cost  him  not 
a  struggle  to  be  reconciled  to  its  destruction.  He  then 
thought  of  sinking  down  in  the  waves  to  rise  no  more. 
To  this,  too,  he  yielded,  saying  briefly  to  himself,  "  It  is 
best  it  should  be  so."  Having  thus  made  up  his  mind 
and  prepared  himself  for  the  worst,  as  he  fancied,  he 
stood  surveying  the  scene.  The  force  of  the  gale  was 
fearful ;  as  it  marched  along  the  waters,  it  lashed  their 
surface  into  foam,  and  burst  upon  the  ship  with  a  fury 
that  seemed  every  moment  on  the  point  of  carrying 
away  her  masts.  At  last,  the  vessel  struck  ;  a  moment 
after,  her  masts  fell,  with  their  whole  burden  of  spars, 
sails,  and  rigging  ;  the  waves  then  rose  over  the  stern 
of  the  helpless  hulk,  and  swept  the  whole  length  of  it. 
Several  of  the  passengers  were  hurried  into  the  tide, 
there  to  find  a  watery  grave ;  some  clung  to  the 
bulwarks,  and  others  saved  themselves  in  various  ways. 

Raymond  was  himself  plunged  into  the  waves. 
His  first  idea  was  to  yield  himself  to  his  fate  without  an 
effort ;  but  the  love  of  life  revived,  as  he  saw  it  placed 
in  danger.  He  was  an  expert  swimmer,  and  exerting 
himself,  he  soon  approached  the  masts,  which  were  still 
floating,  though  entangled  with  the  wreck.  It  was  in 
vain,  however,  to  reach  them,  owing  to  the  rolling  of 
the  surf.  Several  times  he  nearly  laid  his  hand  upon 
them,  when  he  was  beaten  back  by  the  dashing  waves. 
His  strength  gradually  gave  way,  and  he  was  floating 


248          THE     SCHOOL     OF     MISFORTUNE. 

farther  and  farther  from  the  wreck,  when  he  chanced 
to  see  a  spar  near  him ;  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  swam 
to  this,  and,  laying  hold  of  it,  was  thus  able  to  sustain 
himself  upon  the  water. 

The  night  now  grew  dark  apace,  and  Raymond 
being  driven  out  to  sea,  was  parted  from  the  wreck, 
and  could  distinguish  nothing  but  the  flashing  waves 
around  him.  His  limbs  began  to  grow  cold,  and  he 
feared  that  his  strength  would  be  insufficient  to  enable 
him  to  keep  upon  the  spar.  His  anxiety  increased  ;  an 
awe  of  death,  which  he  had  never  felt  before,  sprung  up 
in  his  bosom,  and  an  intense  love  of  life  —  that  thing 
which  he  had  so  recently  spurned  as  worthless  —  burned 
in  his  bosom.  So  little  do  we  know  ourselves  until 
adversity  has  taught  us  reflection,  that  Raymond,  a 
few  hours  before,  fancying  that  he  was  willing  and  pre 
pared  to  die,  now  yearned  for  safety,  for  deliverance, 
for  life,  with  an  agony  he  could  not  control.  His  feel 
ings,  however,  did  not  overpower  him.  Using  every 
effort  of  strengh  and  skill,  and  rubbing  his  chilled  limbs 
from  time  to  time,  he  was  able  to  sustain  himself  till 
morning.  He  could  then  perceive  that  the  vessel  had 
become  a  complete  wreck,  and  that  the  fragments  were 
floating  on  the  waves;  he  could  not  discern  a  single 
human  being,  and  was  left  to  infer  that  all  beside  him 
self  had  perished. 

In  this  situation,  benumbed  with  the  cold,  faint 
and  exhausted  with  exertion,  he  was  on  the  point  of 
yielding  himself  a  prey  to  the  waves,  when  a  pilot-boat 
came  into  view.  It  gradually  approached  the  place 
where  he  was,  and  at  last  seemed  so  near  him  as  almost 


THE     SCHOOL     OF     MISFORTUNE.          249 

to  be  within  the  reach  of  his  voice.  At  this  critical 
moment  she  made  preparations  to  tack,  and  thus  change 
her  direction.  Raymond  noticed  these  movements 
with  indescribable  anxiety  :  if  she  were  to  advance  a 
few  rods  more,  he  should  be  discovered  and  saved ;  if 
she  were  to  change  her  route  ever  so  little,  she  would 
pass  by,  and  he,  unobserved  and  helpless,  would  perish. 
The  experience  of  years  seemed  now  crowded  into  one 
moment  of  agony.  Weary,  cold,  exhausted,  the  poor 
sufferer  wished  not  now  to  die,  but  to  live.  "  Help, 
help !  "  cried  he  with  all  his  strength.  "  O  God,  send 
me  deliverance  from  these  waves !  "  This  earnest  and 
agonizing  petition  was  the  first  prayer  he  had  uttered 
for  years,  and  it  was  in  behalf  of  that  existence  which, 
in  the  days  of  luxury  and  splendor,  he  had  thought  a 
burden  and  a  curse  ! 

Watching  the  pilot-boat  with  the  keenest  interest, 
poor  Raymond  now  sat  upon  the  spar,  almost  in 
capable  of  moving,  on  account  of  his  sufferings  and  his 
weakness.  He  saw  at  last  the  helm  put  down ;  he  saw 
the  vessel  obey  the  impulse ;  he  saw  her  swing  round, 
the  sail  napping  in  the  wind,  and  then  filling  again;  he 
then  saw  her  shoot  off  in  another  direction,  thus  leaving 
him  destitute  of  hope.  His  heart  sank  within  him,  a 
sickness  came  over  his  bosom,  his  senses  departed,  and 
he  fell  forward  into  the  waves  !  It  was  at  this  moment 
that  he  was  discovered  by  the  pilot.  The  vessel  imme 
diately  steered  towards  him,  and  he  was  taken  on  board. 
In  a  few  hours,  he  was  at  New  York,  and  put  under  the 
care  of  persons  who  rendered  him  every  assistance  which 
he  needed  for  his  immediate  comfort. 


250  THE      SCHOOL      OF      MISFORTUNE. 

It  was  several  hours  after  his  arrival  at  the  city  before 
Raymond  had  fully  recovered  his  senses.  When  he  was 
completely  restored,  and  began  to  make  inquiries,  he 
found  that  all  his  ship  companions  had  perished.  He 
who  probably  cared  least  for  life  —  he  who  had  no  fam 
ily,  no  friends,  and  who  was  weary  of  existence  —  he 
only,  of  all  that  ship's  company,  was  the  one  that  sur 
vived  the  tempest ! 

There  was  something  in  this  so  remarkable,  that  it 
occupied  his  mind,  and  caused  deep  emotions.  In  the 
midst  of  many  painful  reflections,  he  could  not,  how 
ever,  disguise  the  fact,  that  he  felt  a  great  degree  of  plea 
sure  in  his  deliverance  from  so  fearful  a  death.  Again  and 
again  he  said  to  himself,  "  How  happy,  how  thankful  I 
feel  at  being  saved,  when  so  many  have  been  borne 
down  to  a  watery  grave !  "  The  loss  of  his  property, 
though  it  left  him  a  beggar  in  the  world,  did  not  seem 
to  oppress  him  :  the  joy  of  escape  from  death  was  to  him 
a  source  of  lively  satisfaction ;  it  gave  birth  to  a  new 
feeling  —  a  sense  of  dependence  on  God,  and  a  lively  ex 
ercise  of  gratitude  towards  Him.  It  also  established  in 
his  mind  a  fact  before  entirely  unknown,  or  unremarked 
—  that  what  is  called  misfortune,  is  often  the  source  of 
our  most  exquisite  enjoyments.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  said 
Raymond,  in  the  course  of  his  reflections,  "  that,  as  gems 
are  found  in  the  dreary  sands,  and  gold  among  the  rugged 
rocks  —  and  as  the  one  are  only  yielded  to  toil,  and  the 
other  to  the  smelting  of  the  fiery  furnace,  —  so  happiness 
is  the  product  of  danger,  suffering,  and  trial.  I  have 
felt  more  real  peace,  more  positive  enjoyment  from  my 
deliverance,  than  I  was  able  to  find  in  the  whole  circle 


THE   SCHOOL   OP  MISFORTUNE.      251 

of  voluptuous  pleasures,  yielded  by  wealth  and  fashion. 
I  became  a  wretch,  existence  was  to  me  a  burden,  while 
I  was  rich.  But,  having  lost  my  fortune,  and  experi 
enced  the  fear  of  death,  I  am  happy  in  the  bare  posses 
sion  of  that  existence  which  I  spurned  before." 

Such  were  the  feelings  and  reflections  of  Raymond  for 
a  few  days  after  his  escape ;  but  at  length  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  decide  upon  some  course  of  action.  He  was 
absolutely  penniless.  Every  thing  had  been  sunk  with 
the  ship.  He  had  no  letters  of  introduction,  he  had  no 
acquaintances  in  New  York;  nor,  indeed,  did  he  know 
any  one  in  all  America,  save  that  a  brother  of  his  was  a 
clergyman  in  some  part  of  the  United  States ;  but  a 
coldness  had  existed  between  them,  and  he  had  not  heard 
of  him  for  several  years.  Raymond  was  conscious,  too, 
that  this  separation  was  the  result  of  his  own  ungenerous 
conduct ;  for  the  whole  of  his  father's  estate  had  been 
given  to  him,  to  the  exclusion  of  his  brother,  and  he  had 
permitted  him  to  work  his  own  way  in  life,  without  offer 
ing  him  the  least  assistance.  To  apply  to  this  brother 
was,  therefore,  forbidden  by  his  pride  ;  and,  beside,  he 
had  every  reason  to  suppose  that  brother  to  be  poor. 

What,  then,  was  to  be  done  ?  Should  he  return  to 
England?  How  was  he  to  get  the  money  to  pay  his 
passage  1  Beside,  what  was  he  to  do  when  he  got  there  ? 
Go  back  to  the  village  where  he  carried  his  head  so 
high,  and  look  in  the  faces  of  his  former  dashing  ac 
quaintances  —  acknowledging  himself  a  beggar !  This 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Should  he  seek  some  em 
ployment  in  America  ?  This  seemed  the  only  plan.  He 
began  to  make  inquiries  as  to  what  he  could  find  to  do. 


252  THE      SCHOOL      OF      MISFORTUNE. 

One  proposed  to  him  to  keep  a  school ;  another  to  go  into 
a  counting-room  ;  another  to  be  a  bar-keeper  in  a  hotel. 
Any  of  these  occupations  would  have  given  him  the 
means  of  living ;  but  Raymond's  pride  was  in  the  way  ;  — 
pride,  that  dogs  us  all  our  life,  and  stops  up  almost  every 
path  we  ought  to  follow,  persuaded  Raymond  that  he,  who 
was  once  a  gentleman,  ought  to  live  the  life  of  a  gentle 
man  ;  and  of  course  he  could  not  do  either  of  the  things 
proposed. 

But  events,  day  by  day,  pressed  Raymond  to  a  decision. 
His  landlord,  at  last,  became  uneasy,  and  told  him  that  for 
what  had  accrued  he  was  welcome,  in  consideration  of 
his  misfortunes ;  but  he  was  himself  poor,  and  he  begged 
him  respectfully  to  make  the  speediest  possible  arrange 
ments  to  give  up  his  room,  which  he  wanted  for  another 
boarder.  "  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Raymond  in  reply 
to  this,  "  that  I  might  engage  in  the  practice  of  physic. 
In  early  life  I  was  thought  to  have  a  turn  for  the  profes 
sion."  This  suggestion  was  approved  by  the  landlord, 
and  means  were  immediately  taken  to  put  it  into  execu 
tion.  "  Dr.  Raymond,  late  of  England,"  was  forthwith 
announced ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  was  in  the  full  tide 
of  successful  experiment. 

This  fair  weather,  however,  did  not  continue  without 
clouds.  Many  persons  regarded  "  Dr.  Raymond  "  only  as 
one  of  the  adventurers  so  frequently  coming  from  Eng 
land  to  repay  the  kindness  and  courtesy  of  the  Yankees, 
with  imposition  and  villany.  Various  injurious  stories 
were  got  up  about  him ;  some  having  a  sprinkling  of 
truth  in  them,  and,  for  that  reason,  being  very  annoying. 
Raymond,  however,  kept  on  his  way,  paying  little  heed  to 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MISFORTUNE.      253 

these  rumors,  fancying  that,  if  left  to  themselves,  they 
would  soon  die.  And  such  would,  perhaps,  have  been 
the  result,  had  not  a  most  unfortunate  occurrence  given 
matters  another  turn. 

In  the  house  where  Raymond  boarded,  several  small 
sumsof  money,  and  certain  ornaments  of  some  value,  were 
missed  by  the  boarders,  from  time  to  time.  Suspicions 
fell  upon  a  French  servant  in  the  family ;  but  as  nothing 
could  be  proved  against  him,  he  was  retained,  and  a  vig 
ilant  watch  kept  over  his  actions.  Discovering  that  he 
was  suspected,  this  fellow  determined  to  turn  the  suspi 
cion  against  Raymond ;  he,  therefore,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
took  a  valuable  watch  from  one  of  the  rooms,  and  laid  it 
under  the  pillow  of  Raymond's  bed.  This  was  done  with 
such  address,  that  neither  the  gentleman  from  whom  the 
watch  was  stolen,  nor  Raymond  himself,  saw  anything  of 
it  at  the  time.  The  watch  was  missed  in  the  morning,  and 
the  French  servant  was  arrested.  But  as  soon  as  the 
chambermaid  began  to  make  up  Raymond's  bed,  behold, 
the  pilfered  watch  was  there !  The  French  servant  was  at 
once  released,  and  Raymond  was  arrested,  briefly  exam 
ined  and  thrown  into  prison. 

The  circumstances  in  which  he  had  come  to  this 
country  were  now  arrayed  against  him.  The  unfavorable 
rumors  that  had  been  afloat  respecting  him  were  revived ; 
all  the  stories  of  swindlers  that  had  visited  the  country 
for  twenty  years  back,  were  published  anew  with  embel 
lishments.  In  short,  Raymond  was  tried  and  condemned 
by  the  public,  while  he  lay  defenceless  in  prison,  and  long 
before  his  real  trial  came  on.  The  subject  became  a 
matter  of  some  notoriety ;  the  circumstances  were  de- 

22* 


254  THE      SCHOOL      OF      MISFORTUNE. 

tailed  in  the  newspapers.  A  paragraph  noticing  these 
ev  ents  met  the  eye  of  Raymond's  brother,  who  was  set 
tled  as  a  minister  of  the  gospel  in  a  country  parish  not  far 
distant,  and  he  immediately  came  to  the  city.  Satisfying 
himself  by  a  few  inquiries  that  it  was  indeed  his  brother 
who  was  involved  in  difficulty  and  danger,  he  went 
straight  to  the  prison,  with  a  heart  overflowing  with 
sympathy  and  kindness.  But  pride  was  still  in  the  way, 
and  Raymond  haughtily  repulsed  him. 

The  pious  minister  was  deeply  grieved;  but  he  did 
not  the  less  seek  to  serve  his  brother.  He  took  care  to 
investigate  the  facts,  and  became  persuaded  that  the 
French  servant  had  practised  the  deception  that  has  been 
stated ;  but  he  was  not  able  to  prove  it.  He  employed 
the  best  of  counsel ;  but,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  and 
all  his  sympathy,  Raymond  was  found  guilty,  condemn 
ed,  and  consigned  to  prison. 

Up  to  this  time,  the  pride  of  Raymond  had  sustained 
him ;  but  it  now  gave  way.  He  had  borne  the  loss  of  for 
tune,  but  to  be  convicted  of  a  low,  base  theft,  was  what  his 
spirit  could  not  endure.  His  health  sunk  under  it,  and 
his  reason,  for  a  time,  departed.  His  sufferings  during 
that  dark  hour,  God  only  knows.  At  last  he  recovered 
his  health  and  his  senses,  and  then  he  heard,  that,  on 
his  death-bed,  the  French  servant  had  confessed  his  ini 
quity.  It  was  from  the  lips  of  his  brother,  and  under 
his  roof,  where  he  had  been  removed  during  his  insan 
ity,  that  Raymond  learnt  these  events.  He  had  been 
released  from  prison,  and  his  character  cleared  of  the 
imputation  of  crime. 

From  this  period  Raymond  was  an  altered  man.     His 


THE     SCHOOL     OF     MISFORTUNE.  255 

pride  was  effectually  quelled;  no  longer  did  that  disturber 
of  earth's  happiness,  —  the  real  serpent  of  Eden,  —  re 
main  to  keep  him  in  a  state  of  alienation  from  his  brother. 
The  two  were  now,  indeed,  as  brothers.  But  there  were 
other  changes  in  Raymond  ;  his  health  was  impaired,  his 
constitution  enfeebled ;  his  manly  beauty  departed ;  he 
was,  indeed,  but  the  wreck  of  former  days.  But,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  he  now,  for  the  first  time,  found  peace  and 
happiness.  He  had  now  tasted  of  sorrow,  and  was  ac 
quainted  with  grief.  This  enabled  him  to  enter  into 
the  hearts  of  other  men,  to  see  their  sorrows,  and  to  de 
sire  to  alleviate  them.  A  new  world  was  now  open  to 
him  ;  a  world  of  effort,  of  usefulness,  of  happiness.  In 
the  days  of  prosperity,  he  had  no  cares  for  anybody  but 
himself;  and  mere  selfishness  had  left  him  a  wretch 
while  in  possession  of  all  the  supposed  means  of  bliss. 
He  had  now  made  the  discovery,  that  pride  is  the 
curse  of  the  human  race,  and  humility  its  only  cure  ; 
that  trial,  sorrow,  and  misfortune  are  necessary,  in 
most  cases,  to  make  us  acquainted  with  our  own 
hearts,  and  those  of  our  fellow-men ;  and  that  true  bliss 
is  to  be  found  only  in  a  plan  of  life  which  seeks,  earn 
estly  and  sincerely,  the  peace  and  happiness  of  others." 


THE  MAGICIAN. 

A    SAMOIDE    TALE. 

THERE  was  once  upon  a  time  an  old  Samoide  fisher 
man  that  had  the  most  beautiful  daughter  that  ever  was 
seen.  She  was  very  short  and  very  fat,  and  her  skin 
shone  like  blubber  oil  ;  her  eyes  were  small  and  black  ; 
her  teeth  were  large,  and  of  a  beautiful  yellow  hue. 
Her  hair,  also,  was  yellow,  and  being  matted  together, 
hung  down  in  a  thick  mass  upon  her  shoulders. 

This  fair  girl  was  of  an  olive  color,  and  such  were 
her  charms  that  all  the  young  men  who  saw  her  fell  des 
perately  in  love  with  her,  save  one.  This  latter  was  a 
fisherman,  and  famous  for  his  skill  in  every  species  of 
adventurous  sport.  He  was  Very  dexterous  in  spearing 
the  seal  and  sea-otter,  in  managing  the  seal-skin  boat, 
and  in  driving  thft  reindeer  sledge  over  the  snow. 

Now,  although  the  beautiful  lady,  whose  name  was 
Lis,  enslaved  all  others,  this  hero  of  the  fishhook  and 
paddle  set  her  charms  at  nought ;  and,  as  the  fates  are 
very  whimsical,  the  beautiful  girl,  disdaining  the  ad 
dresses  of  all  besides,  became  desperately  enamored  of 
him.  She  took  every  opportunity  in  her  power  to 
please  and  fascinate  him,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Loord, 
for  that  was  the  name  of  the  fisherman,  resisted  her 


THE     MAGICIAN.  257 

advances,  and  in  fact  treated  her  with  marked  neglect, 
if  not  disdain. 

This  appeared  very  wonderful  to  everybody,  and 
especially  to  Lis,  who  made  up  her  mind  that  some  evil- 
minded  spirit  had  bewitched  Loord,  and  thus  enabled 
and  disposed  him  to  resist  her  charms.  She  therefore 
determined  to  go  to  an  island  at  some  distance  in  the 
ocean,  where  she  had  an  uncle  living,  and,  under  pre 
tence  of  visiting  him,  to  consult  a  famous  sorcerer,  or 
magician,  who  dwelt  there,  and,  if  possible,  to  obtain 
his  council  in  the  matter. 

Now  Lis  was  well  skilled  in  the  arts  of  managing 
a  boat ;  so  she  determined  to  go  alone.  She  got  into  a 
boat  made  of  seal-skins,  and  set  forth  upon  the  sea,  hav 
ing  bade  her  friends  farewell  who  were  at  the  landing 
to  take  leave  of  her.  It  was  expected  that  she  would 
return  the  next  day  —  but  she  came  not;  the  second 
day,  the  third,  and  the  fourth,  passed  away,  but  the 
beautiful  Lis  did  not  return.  At  length  some  anxiety 
existed  among  her  friends  as  to  her  welfare,  and  even  the 
interest  of  Loord  was  roused.  He  determined  to  set 
forth  in  search  of  her ;  and  that  very  day,  entering  his 
seal-skin  boat,  he  departed  for  the  magician's  island. 

It  is  important  to  observe,  that  previous  to  starting, 
Loord,  who  generally  avoided  brandy,  took  a  large 
draught,  by  the  advice  of  an  aged  fisherman,  not  so 
much  to  exclude  the  cold  as  to  keep  out  witchcraft. 

Things  went  pretty  well  with  Loord  in  the  first  part 
of  his  voyage,  but  after  awhile,  according  to  his  account 
of  the  matter  on  his  return,  as  he  began  to  approach 
the  magician's  island,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  but  it 


258  THE     MAGICIAN. 

was  bobbing  up  and  down  like  a  porpoise  before  a 
squall.  He  kept  his  eye  upon  it  steadily  for  some  time, 
when  at  last  it  sunk,  and  did  not  rise  again.  Loord 
used  all  his  strength  to  reach  the  place,  and  finally  came 
to  it,  and  the  water  was  whirling  and  boiling  round ; 
but  not  a  bit  of  an  island  was  to  be  seen.  Loord  sailed 
over  and  over  the  place,  and  waited  a  long  time  to  see  if 
he  could  not  pick  up  somebody,  and  particularly  the 
beautiful  Lis,  but  he  found  no  one. 

Loord  at  last  returned ;  he  had  been  gone  all  day, 
and  it  was  late  at  night  when  he  reached  his  home.  He 
was  in  a  bewildered  state,  but  told  his  story  as  I  have 
related  it.  It  was  intimated  to  him  that  perhaps  the 
brandy  got  into  his  head,  and  that  the  sinking  of  the  is 
land  was  all  an  illusion ;  but  he  laughed  at  the  idea.  In 
a  few  days,  however,  a  boat  came  from  the  magician's 
isle,  and  behold  the  beautiful  Lis  was  in  it,  as  well  and 
charming  as  ever.  Her  friends  came  to  see  her,  and 
her  lovers  returned,  and  all  congratulated  her  upon  her 
good  looks,  and  upon  her  escape  from  being  carried  to 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  with  the  magician's  island.  This 
made  her  stare,  upon  which  they  told  her  the  wonderful 
adventures  of  Loord. 

It  being  now  ascertained  that  the  island  of  the  ma 
gician  was  still  standing  in  its  place,  Loord  became  an 
object  of  general  ridicule ;  and  as  he  was  no  longer  a 
hero  in  the  estimation  of  the  people,  Lis  began  to  think 
she  could  live  without  him.  Accordingly,  when  she 
met  him  she  tossed  up  her  head,  and  passed  him  by  with 
disdain.  This  brought  Loord  to  his  senses,  and  he 
began  to  see  that  Lis  was  very  beautiful,  and  pretty  soon 


THE     MAGICIAN.  259 

he  found  out  that  he  could  not  live  without  her.  So  he 
began  to  woo  her  ;  but  at  first  she  would  not  listen  to 
him ;  after  a  great  deal  of  teasing,  however,  she  con 
sented,  and  they  were  married.  But  ever  after,  if  any 
thing  went  wrong,  Lis  would  jeer  him  about  the  magi 
cian's  island  that  bobbed  up  and  down  like  a  porpoise 
before  a  storm,  and  at  last  went  down  to  the  bottom ! 
This  always  brought  Loord  to  terms;  and,  in  short, 
by  means  of  this  affair,  Lis  not  only  got  a  husband, 
but  she  used  the  story  ever  after  to  manage  him ;  for  it 
gave  her  a  power  over  him  like  that  of  a  strong  bit  in 
the  mouth  of  a  headstrong  horse. 

Nor  was  this  all.  The  people  in  those  parts  found 
out  that  Lis  went  to  the  island  to  consult  the  magician, 
and  they  imputed  Loord's  conduct  entirely  to  his  inter 
ference  in  behalf  of  the  beautiful  girl.  But  the  only 
real  magician  in  the  case  was  the  brandy,  for  Lis  did 
not  find  the  seer  whom  she  sought  at  home ;  and,  though 
she  waited  some  days,  she  did  not  see  him ! 


THE  IIERMITESS. 

SUCH  is  the  texture  of  human  society,  that  the  con 
duct  of  every  individual  operates  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree  upon  others.  There  are  few,  perhaps  none,  so 
separate  or  solitary,  that  the  influence  of  their  actions 
extends  not  beyond  themselves.  In  truth,  the  depen 
dences  and  relations  by  which  a  man  is  linked  to  those 
around  him,  are  often  such  that  his  movements  affect 
them  scarcely  less  than  himself.  It  is  said,  that,  in  the 
deep  vales  of  the  Alps,  the  breath  of  a  traveller  will 
sometimes  detach  the  avalanche  from  its  giddy  resting-  | 
place,  which  descends  and  overwhelms  the  valley  and  its 
inhabitants.  And  so,  a  single  action  often,  not  only 
gives  color  and  character  to  the  whole  life  of  the  actor, 
but  determines  the  destiny  of  others. 

So  long  as  an  individual  regulates  his  life  by  the 
divine  rule,  "  Do  to  another  as  you  would  have  another 
do  to  you,"  he  is  not  chargeable  with  consequences. 
But  if,  through  carelessness  or  contempt,  he  departs 
from  the  golden  precept,  he  assumes  the  responsibility 
of  all  the  evil  that  may  flow  from  his  conduct.  It  is 
remarkable  that,  while  this  is  too  plain  to  admit  of  con 
troversy,  still  a  large  portion  of  mankind,  in  the  eager 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  fortune,  and  fame,  either  overlook 
or  disregard  the  consequences  of  their  actions  upon 


THE     HERMITESS.  261 

others.  On  close  examination,  it  will  be  discovered 
that  tears  and  blood  are  common  ingredients  in  the  cup 
of  voluptuous  pleasure ;  that  the  corner-stone  of  a  fortune 
is  often  laid  in  cruelty  and  fraud;  and  the  pinnacle 
of  fame  is  sometimes  attained  by  trampling  on  the  rights 
of  others.  Among  those  who  are  esteemed  the  favored 
and  fortunate,  there  are  many  who  are  indebted  for  their 
success  to  their  want  of  principle,  and  whose  reckoning 
with  conscience  at  the  close  of  life  will  exhibit  a  balance 
against  them  that  far  outweighs  the  transient  pleasures 
they  have  enjoyed.  Our  story  presents  one  of  the  many 
instances  to  which  we  allude. 

About  seventy  years  ago,  there  resided  in  Normandy 
a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Charles  Eustace  Moribond. 
He  was  the  last  of  an  ancient  family,  and  had  spent  his 
early  life  at  Paris,  where  he  was  alike  distinguished  for 
gallantry  and  personal  accomplishments.  After  a  short 
career  of  dissipation,  he  returned  to  his  paternal  estate, 
a  disappointed  man,  and  became  as  remarkable  for  se 
clusion  and  misanthropy,  as  he  had  once  been  for  gay 
and  social  qualities. 

The  inmates  of  his  house  were  an  only  child,  an 
interesting  girl  of  eighteen ;  an  aged  Catholic  priest, 
who  had  been  long  attached  to  the  family ;  and  an 
advanced  maiden  lady,  a  distant  relation,  who  was 
tolerated  there  for  the  want  of  another  home.  Moribond, 
however,  had  little  intercourse  with  any  of  these  indi 
viduals.  He  seldom  went  abroad,  but  spent  his  time  in 
reading.  His  countenance  wore  a  look  of  deep  gloom  ; 
and,  occasionally,  his  eye  gleamed  with  tokens  of  insanity, 
to  which  his  family  were  said  to  have  a  predisposition. 

23 


262  THE     HERMITESS. 

His  daughter,  Lucille,  had  been  chiefly  educated  by 
Le  Clerc,  the  priest,  except  in  music,  drawing,  and 
dancing,  in  which  she  had  received  the  instruction  of 
professed  masters.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she  was 
ten  years  old,  since  which  time  she  had  lived  wholly  at 
home,  in  the  secluded  mansion  of  her  father,  seeing  little 
society,  and  indulging  in  few  amusements,  except  such 
as  could  be  enjoyed  alone.  In  childhood,  her  vivacity 
was  almost  uncontrollable;  but  it  had  now  given  place 
to  seriousness ;  and  the  face  which  used  to  beam  with 
smiles,  was  serious,  and  sometimes  sad.  Her  temper 
seemed  to  be  strongly  shaded  by  the  gloom  that  rested 
upon  every  object  around  her.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was 
now  a  sentiment  in  her  breast  that  waked  desires  for  the 
society  of  one,  at  least,  with  whom  she  could  sympathize ; 
and  such  a  sentiment  may  have  touched  her  coun 
tenance  with  that  mournfulness  which  sometimes  came 
over  it. 

Though  the  situation  of  Lucille  had  offered  little  occa 
sion  for  the  display  of  character,  it  needed  not  much  ob 
servation  to  discover  that  she  was  beautiful ;  her  high 
brow  seemed  to  speak  of  lofty  thoughts,  and  her  full, 
dark  eyes  to  tell  of  elevated  feelings.  But,  in  deal 
ing  only  with  her  tutors,  waiting-maids,  aunt  Charite, 
and  father  Le  Clerc,  there  was  little  to  develope  either 
the  one  or  the  other.  An  impression,  however,  existed 
amongst  those  who  knew  her,  that  she  was  endowed 
with  great  sensibility,  and  that  her  character  was  rather 
made  up  of  soft  and  feminine  feelings,  than  of  strong 
and  active  qualities.  But  be  this  as  it  might,  no  one 
who  had  ever  seen  her  would  readily  forget  the  beautiful 


THE     HERMITESS. 


263 


image  that  she  gave  to  the  mind,  or  fail  to  feel  an  interest 
in  one  so  lovely. 

One  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  Lucille  received  a 
summons  from  her  father  to  attend  him  in  his  library. 
Such  a  thing  was  unusual,  and  she  went  to  him  with 
excited  expectation.  He  held  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
seemed  involved  in  absorbing  thought.  Lucille  stood 
by  him  a  few  moments;  at  length  he  spoke  to  her. 
"  Lucille,"  said  he,  "  I  have  received  a  letter  from  a 
young  man  at  Paris,  who  advises  me  that  he  is  coming 
to  pay  me  a  visit ;  and  he  will  be  here  to-morrow.  Now 
I  have  some  things  to  say  to  you,  that  you  must  listen  to. 
This  young  gentleman  is  the  last  of  one  branch  of  our 
family.  His  father  removed,  many  years  since,  to 
Canada;  he  was  unsuccessful  in  his  pursuits,  and  died, 
leaving  two  sons,  who  were  twins,  dependent  upon  his 
friends.  They  were  fortunate  in  finding  the  protection 
of  one  who  educated  them  as  became  their  blood.  One 
of  them,  however,  married  indiscreetly,  and  involved 
himself  in  debt.  To  escape  from  his  difficulties,  he 
entered  on  board  a  privateer  which  was  about  to  sail 
from  Quebec.  The  vessel  was  taken  by  an  English 
ship-of-war,  and  Philippe  Maurice,  with  the  rest  of  the 
crew,  was  immured  in  a  gloomy  prison,  where  he  soon 
after  died.  Pierre,  the  last  that  now  remained,  came 
recently  to  Paris  to  receive  a  considerable  fortune,  which 
was  bequeathed  to  him  by  a  kinsman  who  died  there  a 
few  months  since.  He  is  coming  to  visit  us  as  a  relative, 
and,  as  such,  must  be  received  with  distinction.  I 
hated  his  father ;  but  I  would  not  that  any  one  should 
see  me  deficient  in  the  hospitality  which  characterized 


264  THE     HERMITESS. 

my  ancestors,  and  which  in  the  decay  of  their  house 
shall  not  be  forgotten.  I  tell  you  the  history  of  this 
young  man,  Lucille,  that  you  may  understand  how  I 
wish  him  to  be  received." 

Lucille  now  left  her  father  ;  and  the  next  day  Pierre 
Maurice  arrived.  He  was  a  young  man,  about  four-and- 
twenty,  handsome,  and  possessed  of  engaging  manners. 
There  was  something  in  his  eye  which  bespoke  undue 
warmth  and  quickness ;  but  I  know  not  whether  a  girl 
of  eighteen  would  reckon  such  traits  as  unfavorable  to 
manly  beauty. 

If  the  reader  is  gifted  with  a  little  second-sight,  he 
has  foreseen  that  Pierre  and  Lucille  were  destined  to 
"fall  in  love"  with  each  other.  Such  was  the  fact; 
and  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  Pierre  had  declared  his 
passion,  and  Lucille  had  sighed  a  reciprocity  of  senti 
ment.  She  must  be  forgiven :  for  Pierre  was  not  only 
a  man  after  woman's  own  heart,  but  he  was  the  first 
who  had  whispered  love  in  her  ear.  Pierre,  who  was 
frank  in  his  disposition,  was  prepared  to  make  a  decla 
ration  of  his  regard  for  Lucille  to  Moribond,  when  the 
latter,  who  looked  with  suspicion  upon  Maurice,  had  de 
termined  to  put  a  period  to  his  visit. 

While  each  was  seeking  the  other  with  these  oppo 
site  views,  they  accidentally  met  in  the  garden.  Mori- 
bond  rudely  told  Maurice  that  he  could  no  longer  ex 
tend  hospitality  to  one  who  could  meanly  attempt  to 
throw  poison  in  the  cup  of  his  host.  Maurice  did  not 
exactly  gather  the  meaning  of  the  allusion  ;  but  under 
standing  that  it  was  meant  for  insult,  he  laid  his  hand 
hastily  upon  his  sword.  Moribond  instantly  drew  his, 


THE     HERMITESS.  265 

and  there  was  a  fierce  clashing  of  steel  between  the 
parties.  The  sudden  appearance  of  Lucille,  shrieking 
in  terror,  separated  them.  Maurice  withdrew,  while 
the  lowering  look  of  Moribond  pursued  him  with  an  ex 
pression  of  the  sternest  hatred. 

Maurice  immediately  left  the  house ;  but,  determin 
ing  to  see  Lucille,  he  stopped  at  a  neighboring  village. 
He  soon  found  means  to  interest  father  Le  Clerc  and 
aunt  Charite  in  his  case,  who  gave  him  secret  admission 
into  the  chateau.  Pierre  at  length  persuaded  Lucille  to 
leave  her  father's  house.  Le  Clerc  hastily  performed 
the  marriage  service,  with  none  but  aunt  Charite  to 
witness  it;  and,  under  cover  of  the  night,  Pierre  and 
his  bride  set  out  in  a  carriage  for  Paris.  Taking  a  cir 
cuitous  route  to  elude  pursuit,  they  were  in  a  few  days 
in  the  vicinity  of  that  place. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  just  after  they  had  entered 
the  forest  of  Boulogne,  that  their  carriage  was  suddenly 
stopped.  Pierre  pulled  down  the  window,  and  demand 
ed  the  occasion  of  it.  "  Viper  !  "  said  the  voice  of 
Moribond,  "  you  need  no  answer  to  that."  Maurice 
instantly  threw  open  the  door  of  the  carriage;  and, 
while  he  was  descending,  the  frighted  Lucille  threw 
around  his  neck  a  chain,  to  which  was  suspended  an 
amulet  in  the  shape  of  a  cross,  exclaiming,  "  God  pre 
serve  you,  Pierre  !  —  here !  here  !  —  take  this —  now 
no  one  can  harm  you."  Maurice  was  met  by  Moribond, 
who  fiercely  assaulted  him  with  his  sword.  At  the  same 
moment,  the  postillion  was  dragged  to  the  ground,  and 
the  carriage  driven  rapidly  away.  Lucille  shrieked,  as 


23* 


266  THE     HERM1TESS. 

she  heard  the  clashing  of  swords ;  which,  however,  the 
distance  and  the  noise  of  the  carriage  soon  drowned. 

In  three  days,  in  a  state  bordering  on  insensibility, 
she  again  found  herself  at  her  father's  house.  She  in 
quired  for  her  father  and  her  husband ;  but  all  around 
her  were  dumb.  She  implored  them  in  vain  to  tell  her 
the  catastrophe  of  the  conflict.  She  was  at  length  told 
that  her  father  had  returned,  and  it  was  intimated  that 
Pierre  had  fallen. 

The  situation  of  Lucille  was  distressing ;  deprived  of 
her  husband,  and  imprisoned  rather  than  protected  by 
her  father,  she  contemplated  her  state  with  feelings  of 
inexpressible  bitterness.  A  month  passed  away.  The 
gloom  of  Moribond  had  become  darker  and  more  des 
perate  ;  and  the  belief  in  young  Maurice's  death  was 
admitted  by  all. 

At  this  time,  a  servant  belonging  to  the  family,  who 
had  just  returned  from  Paris,  privately  informed  father 
Le  Clerc  that  he  had  seen  Maurice  there,  and  that  he 
had  ascertained  that  in  a  few  days  he  would  sail  for 
America  from  Bordeaux.  This  was  communicated  to 
Lucille,  and  she  determined,  if  possible,  to  see  her  hus 
band  before  his  departure.  Accordingly,  she  secretly 
set  off  for  Bordeaux,  taking  only  a  favorite  Irish  ser 
vant,  by  the  name  of  Kelly,  with  her.  On  her  arrival 
there,  she  found  that  the  vessel  had  sailed  for  Quebec, 
and  that  Maurice  was  on  board.  Dreading  to  return  to 
her  father,  she  determined  to  enter  a  vessel  that  was  to 
sail  for  the  Canadas  on  the  morrow.  She  did  so,  and 
was  soon  on  the  broad  ocean. 


THE     HERMITESS.  267 

It  is  easier  for  woman  to  sustain  the  burden  of  pain 
ful  thoughts  and  agonized  feelings,  through  a  long 
period  of  inaction,  than  for  the  hardier  sex.  There  is 
an  impatience  in  men,  that  makes  them  at  first  restless, 
and  then  desperate,  if  they  are  obliged  for  a  long  time 
to  brood  in  suspense  over  wrong  and  misfortune.  Lu 
cille  saw  her  situation  in  its  true  light.  She  had  sep 
arated  herself  from  her  father ;  the  natural  protection 
of  the  paternal  roof  could  be  hers  no  more.  She  was 
pursuing  a  husband ;  but  one  who,  at  best,  had  deserted 
her.  She  supported  herself,  however,  with  firmness. 
She  wept  bitterly,  indeed ;  and  often,  at  night,  when, 
alone  in  her  narrow  apartment,  she  heard  the  waves 
strike  against  the  plank  on  which  she  was  reposing,  and 
heard  the  winds  howl  through  the  rigging  of  the  ship, 
she  felt  that  she  was  cast  off  by  Heaven,  and  deserted 
by  her  fellow-beings. 

But  she  had  now  a  new  trial  to  sustain.  The  vessel 
had  been  at  sea  about  four  weeks,  when  a  violent  storm 
arose.  For  several  days  previously,  a  calm  had  over 
spread  the  sea ;  and  the  wide  water  lay  smooth  and  level 
as  the  face  of  a  mirror.  Not  even  the  zephyr  rippled 
its  surface  with  its  airy  foot-prints.  But,  at  length,^  the 
ocean  began  to  swell  in  long  and  heavy  undulations ; 
and  the  sky,  which  before  was  clear,  was  now  overcast 
with  ominous  clouds.  The  gale  soon  began  to  pour 
from  the  southwest ;  and  the  sea,  now  changed  from  a 
green  to  an  inky  hue,  tossed  and  tumbled  in  violent  agi 
tation. 

The  little  vessel  bent  her  side  to  the  water,  and  gal 
lantly  danced  along  the  top  of  the  waves,  running  like  a 


268  THE     HERMITESS. 

frighted  bird  before  the  storm.  One  by  one  the  captain 
had  ordered  her  sails  to  be  taken  in,  till  now  she  only 
carried  a  single  sail.  Still  she  kept  on  before  the 
wind;  till,  at  length,  the  heavy  sea,  gathering  and  rising 
over  her  stern,  fell  upon  the  deck,  and  swept  its  whole 
length.  Orders  were  given  to  lie  to;  but,  in  bring 
ing  the  vessel  about,  her  mainmast  was  carried  away, 
and,  now  unmanageable,  she  became  the  sport  of  the 
waves.  Fortunately,  at  this  time  the  storm  began  to 
abate;  and  in  a  few  hours  the  gale  had  wholly  subsided. 
The  sea,  however,  still  swelled  in  heavy  billows,  and  the 
wreck  pitched  and  rolled  violently. 

During  this  scene,  the  conduct  of  Lucille  exhibited  a 
degree  of  firmness  which  drew  forth  many  expressions 
of  admiration  from  the  rough  beings  around  her.  She 
looked  out  upon  the  sea,  where  the  waters,  "  working  in 
ceaseless  undulation,"  only  seemed  a  dark  emblem  of 
furious  passion ;  she  looked  up  to  heaven,  where  the 
thick,  hurrying  clouds  bore  an  aspect  only  of  terror; 
she  listened  to  the  gale,  which  seemed  the  voice  of  a 
demon.  She  shuddered;  but  she  found  in  all  these 
aspects  of  nature  something  that  accorded  with  the  high- 
wrought  state  of  her  own  feelings;  she  was  elevated 
above  the  thought  of  immediate  danger.  The  idea  of 
death  hardly  came  to  her  as  an  object  of  terror  ;  and 
when  it  crossed  her  mind,  it  seemed  a  thing  which 
would  only  bring  repose  to  a  heart  oppressed  with  care 
and  wrung  with  anxiety. 

After  remaining  several  days  in  a  disabled  condition, 
the  suffering  inhabitants  of  the  wreck  were  taken  off  by 
an  English  sloop-of-war,  and  carried  to  New  York.  Lu- 


THE     HERMITESS.  269 

cille  now  found  her  situation  more  perplexing  than  ever. 
She  was  in  a  strange  land,  and  without  friends.  She 
was  at  a  distance  of  many  hundred  miles  from  her  hus 
band,  and  the  state  of  war  between  the  English  and 
French  colonies  rendered  it  impossible  for  her  to  pursue 
him,  and  difficult  to  communicate  with  him.  Besides, 
she  could  not  deny  to  herself  the  probability,  that  a  hus 
band  who  would  desert  her,  would  refuse  to  receive  her  ; 
and,  more  than  all,  there  was  still  some  reason  to  doubt 
whether  her  husband  were  actually  living.  The  evi 
dences  of  his  death  by  her  father's  hand  were  strong ; 
the  servant  who  supposed  he  saw  him  in  Paris,  might 
have  been  mistaken ;  and  the  man  who  sailed  from  Bor 
deaux,  might  have  been  another  person  bearing  the  same 
name.  When  she  reflected  upon  it,  a  circumstance 
which  seemed  not  material  before,  pressed  itself  now 
upon  her  attention.  The  name  at  Bordeaux  was  writ 
ten  Morris,  instead  of  Maurice;  and,  on  inquiry  at 
New  York,  she  found  the  former  a  very  common  name 
in  America.  Amid  all  this  uncertainty,  Lucille  acted 
with  decision.  She  adopted  her  father's  second  name, 
and  passed  under  the  title  of  Madame  Eustace.  Hav 
ing  obtained  the  respect  of  the  officers  of  the  English 
sloop-of-war,  by  whose  influence  she  was  received  into 
the  family  of  a  respectable  widow,  as  a  lodger,  she  re 
solved  to  maintain  herself  by  teaching  some  of  the  ac 
complishments  of  which  she  was  mistress,  while  she 
should,  at  the  same  time,  prosecute  her  inquiries  res 
pecting  Maurice. 

A  year  passed  away  and  found  Lucille  the  mother  of 
a  daughter.     She  had   obtained  such  information,  that 


270  THE     HERMITESS. 

her  mind  rested  in  the  persuasion  that  her  husband  was 
really  dead,  and  that  the  individual  whom  she  had  pur 
sued  was  a  stranger.  She  would  have  been  tired  of 
existence,  had  not  the  maternal  sentiment  given  her 
motives  for  exertion,  and  stirred  those  fears  and  hopes 
which  generate  attachment  to  life. 

Lucille  made  friends  rapidly,  and  was  soon  able  to  set 
herself  steadfastly  to  the  occupation  she  had  resolved 
upon.  The  thoughts  of  high  station  in  life,  which  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  indulge,  she  had  laid  aside. 
With  a  decision  which  evinced  more  courage  than  to 
face  a  battle,  she  closed  forever  all  other  hope  for  her 
self,  than  to  support  in  silence  her  own  sorrows,  while 
at  the  same  time  she  should  take  the  humble  path  which 
now  lay  before  her,  and  bring  to  the  duties  she  owed 
her  child,  such  cheerfulness  of  spirit  as  might  enable  her 
to  discharge  them  with  effect. 

All  this,  we  may  believe,  was  not  done  without  tears, 
or  a  struggle.  Could  we  have  looked  into  her  heart, 
and  witnessed  the  painful  process  by  which  hope  was 
exchanged  for  blighted  prospects,  and  love  turned  to 
bitterness,  and  pride  made  to  bow  in  humiliation, 
and  a  sense  of  dignity  and  power  to  give  place  to  a  con 
sciousness  of  humble  dependence,  we  should  have  pitied 

her  distress,  and  admired  the  energy  of  her  character. 

****** 

We  must  now  pass  over  a  long  interval,  and  come  at 
once  to  the  year  1776.  At  this  time,  Madame  Eustace 
had  been  long  established  as  a  teacher  of  drawing  and 
music ;  and  in  that  capacity  had  secured  the  esteem  of 
some  of  the  most  respectable  families  in  New  York. 


THE     HERMITESS.  271 

She  was  still  a  beautiful  woman ;  but  she  had  always 
avoided  society,  and  lived  as  much  in  seclusion  as  her 
avocations  would  permit.  She  had  obtained  a  genteel 
living,  while,  at  the  same  time,  she  had  sedulously  de 
voted  herself  to  the  education  of  her  daughter,  Lucrece, 
now  eighteen  years  old.  The  uncommon  beauty  of  Lu 
crece  had  already  attracted  much  attention ;  arid,  al 
though  .her  mother  had  endeavored  to  keep  her  back 
from  society,  she  had  become  a  favorite  in  several  fam 
ilies  of  high  respectability,  where  she  had  seen  some 
fashionable  society,  and  drawn  around  herself  not  a  few 
admirers.  There  were  thoughts  suggested  by  this  state 
of  things  to  Madame  Eustace,  which  penetrated  her 
with  the  keenest  distress.  She  had  submitted,  without 
repining,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  to  painful  uncertainty  : 
she  had  imprisoned  in  her  own  heart  her  restless  and 
anxious  thoughts  ;  she  had  taken  upon  herself  that  cruel 
and  humiliating  station  which  the  world  will  ever  assign 
to  an  unprotected  woman  in  her  circumstances  :  all 
this  she  had  borne;  and,  what  is  more,  she  had,  while 
young,  uninstructed,  and  unpractised,  chosen  her  own 
principles  of  conduct,  and  drawn  from  these  sources  of 
her  own  mind,  and  the  impulses  of  her  own  spirit, 
the  means  of  sustaining  herself  in  this  difficult  course  of 
conduct.  But  the  circumstances  of  her  daughter  made 
her  now  regard,  with  fresh  bitterness,  the  uncertainty 
which  rested  upon  her  fortunes. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  could  not,  by  every  inves 
tigation  she  had  been  able  to  make,  ascertain  whether 
Maurice  were  living  or  not.  Her  father  had  died  some 
years  before,  throwing  no  light  upon  his  fate.  There 


272 


THE     HERMITESS. 


were  circumstances  which  inclined  her  to  think  he 
was  still  living ;  and  others,  again,  which  induced  the 
belief  that  he  died  by  the  hand  of  her  father.  There 
was  a  mystery,  however,  which  she  could  not  penetrate, 
and  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  her  to  determine, 
whether  she  were  a  widow,  or  a  deserted  wife,  or  per 
chance  the  cast-off  plaything  of  a  deceiver.  This  un 
certainty  she  had  learned  to  bear  so  long  as  it  affected 
only  herself;  but  now  that  it  must  influence  the  fortunes 
of  her  daughter,  and  expose  her  to  the  most  mortifying 
trials,  her  anxiety  preyed  upon  her  in  secret,  and  her 
heart  bled  afresh.  Such  was  her  condition,  in  the  fall 
of  1776,  when  the  British  were  approaching  New  York. 
In  anticipation  of  its  capture,  many  of  the  inhabitants 
left  their  homes,  and  hurried  back  into  the  country,  at  a 
distance  from  the  scene  of  the  coming  struggle.  Among 
others  who  were  preparing  to  leave  the  city  was  Mrs. 
Rosevelt,  a  widow  lady  of  fortune  and  high  respecta 
bility.  She  had  been  a  kind  friend  to  Madame  Eustace, 
and  was  extremely  partial  to  Lucrece.  She  proposed  to 
Madame  Eustace  that  Lucrece  should  accompany  her 
in  her  retirement,  which  proposition  was  gratefully  ac 
cepted.  Accordingly,  Lucrece  soon  left  the  city  with 

Mrs.  Rosevelt,  who  retired  to  the  village  of  R ,  on 

the  western  border  of  Connecticut,  while  Madame  Eus 
tace  remained  in  New  York. 

It  would  seem  that  a  country  which  is  the  theatre  of 
war,  must  be  wholly  given  to  mourning  and  gloom.  But 
there  are  quiet  little  valleys,  even  in  such  a  country, 
where  the  lover's  lute  is  not  drowned  by  the  voice  of 
cannon ;  and  in  society  where  battle  and  bloodshed  are 


THE     HERMtTESS.  273 

the  absorbing  topics,  youthful  hearts  are  still  beating 
with  lively  emotions. 

It  will  not  seem  extraordinary,  then,  that,  in  the  win 
ter  of  1776-7,  the  little  village  of  R was  a  scene 

of  considerable  gayety.  It  was  at  a  distance  of  about 
seventy  miles  from  New  York :  and,  on  account  of  its 
favorable  situation,  had  been  selected  as  the  place  of 
refuge  for  several  wealthy  families. 

Among  the  most  distinguished  individuals  in  the  vil 
lage  of  R ,  was  Colonel  Morris.  He  was  a  man  of 

large  fortune,  and  also  of  power  and  influence.  He 
had  been  chosen  a  colonel  of  militia,  but  as  yet  had 
had  no  actual  command.  In  truth,  there  was  a  sort  of 
uncertainty  as  to  his  political  views ;  for  although  he 
had  declared  himself  favorable  to  the  revolution,  yet 
there  were  those  who  suspected  that  he  entertained  other 
sentiments.  His  wife  had  been  dead  for  several  years. 
He  had  but  one  child ;  and,  what  was  remarkable,  he 
seemed  to  have  for  him  no  very  ambitious  views.  This 
son  had  been  educated  at  home,  and  was  about  three- 
and-twenty.  Though  a  young  man  of  talents,  he  had 
been  dissuaded  by  his  father  from  entering  the  army,  or 
engaging  in  any  profession. 

As  it  is  a  part  of  our  story,  we  may  as  well  disclose 
the  truth  at  once,  that  this  young  gentleman,  William 
Morris  by  name,  soon  formed  a  very  ardent  attachment 
for  the  fair  Lucrece ;  and  it  is  our  duty  to  add,  that  his 
passion  was  not  thrown  away  upon  a  cold  and  indiffer 
ent  heart.  In  short,  young  Morris  and  Lucrece  loved 
each  other  devotedly,  and,  before  the  winter  was  out, 
they  had  said  and  sighed  it  to  each  other  a  thousand 

24 


274  THE     HERMITESS. 

times.     William  now  solicited,  throuo-h  Mrs.  Rosevelt, 

'  O  " 

the  hand  of  Lucrece,  of  her  mother.  Every  thing  was 
represented  favorably  by  Mrs.  Rosevelt,  and  the  con 
nexion  urged  in  the  strongest  terms.  After  many 
doubts  and  scruples,  and  many  inquiries  respecting  the 
family  of  Morris,  all  of  which  were  at  length  satisfac 
torily  answered,  Madame  Eustace  yielded  a  hesitating 
assent.  Colonel  Morris  soon  after  signified  his  appro 
bation  of  the  match,  and  the  young  couple  thought 
themselves  the  happiest  beings  in  existence. 

The  time  fixed  for  the  wedding  was  the  spring  of 
1777.  Madame  Eustace  had  promised  to  be  present  on 
the  occasion.  But,  a  few  days  before  the  appointed  time, 
she  informed  Mrs.  Rosevelt  that  unforeseen  circum 
stances  must  prevent  her  being  present  on  the  occasion. 
She  wished,  however,  that  the  ceremony  should  not  be 
deferred,  and  said  that  she  would  come  a  few  days  after. 
The  marriage  accordingly  took  place.  It  was  remarked, 
at  the  wedding,  that  a  fairer  pair  were  never  united  in 
the  village  of  R ;  and  the  striking  resemblance  be 
tween  the  bride  and  bridegroom  was  spoken  of  by  all, 
and  pleasantly  commented  upon,  as  a  token  of  conge 
niality  which  fitted  them  to  be  happy  with  each  other. 

It  was  arranged  that  William  should,  for  the  present, 
take  his  wife  to  his  father's  house ;  and,  accordingly, 
she  was  soon  settled  there.  In  a  few  days  Madame 
Eustace  arrived,  accompanied  only  by  her  old  servant 
Kelly,  who  had,  twenty  years  before,  attended  her  to 
America.  It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  she  found  her 
daughter  alone,  and  in  some  agitation.  News  had  ar 
rived  that  a  large  detachment  of  the  British  forces  had 


THE     HERMITESS.  275 

landed  at  the  distance  of  about  twenty  miles,  and  were 
directing  their  march  toward  Danbury.  It  had  caused 
great  excitement ;  and  Colonel  Morris  and  his  son  had 
gone  with  others  to  learn  the  state  of  facts,  and  see  what 
it  might  be  necessary  for  them  to  do.  Lucrece  related 
the  circumstances  to  her  mother,  and  expressed  her 
anxiety.  "  But  I  am  safe,"  she  added,  "  for  see  here  ; 
William  has  bestowed  upon  me  an  amulet,  which  will 
save  me  from  all  harm."  "  Let  me  see  it,"  said  Mad 
ame  Eustace.  She  took  it.  It  was  a  gold  chain,  with 
a  cross  of  the  same  metal.  It  could  not  be  mistaken ; 
it  was  the  same  she  had  thrown  about  the  neck  of  her 
husband,  near  twenty  years  before,  at  the  frightful  mo 
ment  when  he  was  descending  from  his  carriage  to  meet 
her  father. 

A  dreadful  light  now  flashed  on  the  mind  of  Madame 
Eustace;  in  an  instant,  her  thoughts  passed  over  a 
long  train  of  circumstances,  and  the  stunning  conclu 
sion  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  her.  At  once  she  ar 
rived  at  the  conclusion  that  Maurice  was  living ;  that 
she  was  in  his  house :  that  he  had  been  married  to  her 
while  still  married  to  another,  and  that  her  daughter 
was  wedded  to  her  own  brother.  She  sank  upon  the 
floor,  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  from  which,  after  some 
hours,  she  recovered.  A  physician  was  then  by  her  side, 
and  Lucrece,  with  her  husband,  was  bending  over  her 
couch.  She  no  sooner  saw  them,  than  she  shrieked 
violently,  and  seemed  convulsed  with  agony.  At  this 
moment,  Colonel  Morris  entered  the  room.  Madame 
Eustace  bent  on  him  a  long,  fixed,  earnest  gaze.  "  Yes, 
yes !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  it  is  he.  O  God !  why  was  I 


276  THE     HERMITESS. 

reserved  for  this?"  At  the  same  instant,  she  sprang 
from  the  couch,  throwing  aside  those  who  attempted 
to  restrain  her,  walked  up  to  Morris,  and  looking  him 
in  the  face  with  a  wild  and  fearful  expression,  she  ex 
claimed,  "Maurice,  see,  here  is  your  work!  I  am  Lu 
cille  Moribond,  the  wronged  and  ruined  dupe  of  a  de 
ceiver  !  There,"  said  she,  pointing  to  Lucrece,  "  is 
thy  daughter  and  mine,  and  there  is  her  husband,  your 
own  sou ! " 

Morris  was  a  man  of  habitual  self-command.  It  was 
seldom  that  any  feature  of  his  face  was,  for  a  moment, 
liberated  from  the  strict  guard  which  he  kept  over  his 
looks  and  speech.  He  had  learnt  to  govern  himself,  and 
to  govern  others.  He  was  grave,  calm,  and  taciturn ; 
but,  for  once,  his  circumspection  left  him.  He  shrunk 
back  from  Madame  Eustace  as  from  a  horrible  spectre ; 
his  lips  became  pale  as  ashes ;  his  hands  were  stretched 
forward ;  his  fingers  apart,  and  hooked  like  the  talons  of 
a  bird  of  prey ;  and  his  eye  glared,  in  fixed  amazement, 
upon  her.  Then  with  a  faltering  and  husky  voice,  he 
cried  out,  "  Take  her  away  —  take  her  away  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame  Eustace,  now  relaxed,  and  faint 
ing  ;  "  take  me  away  ;  take  me  where  I  may  never  see 
the  light  of  heaven  again  ;  take  me  away,  that  I  may 
never  see  the  face  of  one  whom  in  charity  I  had  hoped 
was  dead."  She  now  sunk  into  the  arms  of  the  physi 
cian,  who  alone,  among  those  present,  had  sufficient 
self-possession  to  assist  her.  All  around  had  been  struck 
with  the  dreadful  conviction  of  the  truth  of  Madame 
Eustace's  words.  The  mind  of  Lucrece  was  for  a  mo 
ment  paralyzed ;  but  soon  the  wildness  with  which  she 


THE     HERMITESS.  277 

looked,  first  on  her  husband,  and  then  on  her  mother 
and  Colonel  Morris,  and  then  again  on  her  husband,  at 
the  same  time  drawing  back  from  him,  showed  that  she 
was  making  a  frightful  application  of  the  seeming  truth 
to  herself.  Young  Morris  clinched  his  forehead  with 
a  convulsive  grasp,  and  writhed  as  if  his  sinews  were 
torn  by  the  rack ;  while  Colonel  Morris  sank  down  upon 
a  chair,  and  sat  breathing  quick  and  hard,  his  chin  rest 
ing  on  his  breast,  and  his  arms  swinging  by  his  side. 

Colonel  Morris  soon  recovered  his  self-possession; 
but  he  had  scarcely  time  to  collect  his  thoughts,  when 
the  trampling  of  a  horse  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  he 
was  inquired  for.  It  proved  to  be  a  messenger,  des 
patched  by  General  Wooster  to  apprize  the  Colonel 
that  the  British,  having  succeeded  in  burning  Danbury, 

would  attempt  to  retreat  through  the  village  of  R ; 

and  urgently  requiring  his  immediate  attendance  at  a 
place  about  ten  miles  distant,  to  assist  in  devising  means 
to  effect  their  capture.  It  was  about  midnight,  and  not 
a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  Colonel  Morris  mounted  his 
horse,  and  set  off,  determining  to  be  back  early  the  next 
morning. 

The  morning  came,  and  found  the  house  of  Morris 
nearly  deserted.  Mrs.  Rosevelt  had  caused  Madame 
Eustace,  who  was  in  a  helpless  condition,  to  be  removed 
to  her  own  house,  where  she  was  attended  by  the  ago 
nized  Lucrece.  William  Morris  had  drawn  out  from 
Kelly  the  story  of  Madame  Eustace,  and  found  in  it  what 
he  deemed  a  corroboration  of  the  dreadful  hints  which 
she  had  expressed.  In  a  state  of  despair,  he  seized  a 
musket,  and,  leaving  his  father's  house,  set  out  to  join  in 

24* 


278  THE     HERMITESS. 

the  conflict,  which  was  now  approaching,  with  the 
British  troops. 

The  history  of  the  expedition  to  Danbury,  the  object 
of  which  was  to  destroy  the  military  stores  at  that  place, 
is  well  known.  Our  story  only  requires  that  we  should 
give  a  brief  outline  of  it.  The  detachment,  consisting 
of  about  two  thousand  men,  under  General  Tryon, 
landed  at  Compo  Bay,  near  F  airfield,  and,  proceeding 
through  Reading  to  Danbury,  a  distance  of  about  twenty 
miles,  laid  the  town  in  ashes.  Having  accomplished 
their  work,  they  set  out,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day  after  their  landing,  on  their  return.  They  now 

chose  a  circuitous' route  through  the  village  of  R , 

where  they  arrived  about  noon.  General  Wooster,  with 
three  hundred  militia,  was  pressing  upon  their  rear,  and 
Arnold,  at  the  head  of  five  hundred  militia,  with  magi 
cal  celerity,  had  placed  himself  in  their  front.  Taking 
possession  of  a  little  eminence,  which  rises  at  the  north 
ern  part  of  the  village  of  R ,  these  men  placed 

themselves  behind  a  hasty  breastwork  of  logs,  carts, 
ploughs,  and  harrows,  along  the  stone  fences,  and  be 
hind  the  rocks,  which  are  still  to  be  seen  covering  the 
fields. 

In  this  position,  Arnold  awaited  the  approach  of  the 
British  troops.  They  had  been  apprized  of  the  resist 
ance  that  was  to  be  made ;  but,  as  they  ascended  the 
hill,  and  came  close  upon  the  American  line,  not  a  man 
was  to  be  seen.  The  points  of  muskets  that  were  visi 
ble  over  the  rocks  and  fences,  however,  admonished 
them  of  the  reception  they  were  about  to  meet  with. 
There  was  a  profound  silence,  only  disturbed  by  the 


THE     HERMITESS.  279 

tread  of  the  advancing  soldiery.  At  length,  a  solitary 
musket  flashed  from  the  fence,  and  then  a  hundred  bul 
lets,  aimed  with  a  keen  and  certain  sight,  were  hurled 
upon  the  breast  of  the  enemy.  This  was  followed  by 
an  irregular  fire,  which  soon  obliged  the  British  to  re 
treat,  leaving  several  of  their  men  dead  upon  the  field. 

But  again  they  advanced,  and  were  again  repulsed. 
The  British  officers  now  held  a  council  of  war ;  and 
were  about  proposing  terms  of  capitulation,  when,  in 
formation  that  General  Wooster  was  killed  being  com 
municated  to  them,  they  resolved  upon  a  third  attempt 
to  break  through  the  obstacle  which  opposed  their 
march.  Accordingly,  the  greater  part  of  the  forces, 
bringing  up  their  cannon,  pressed  with  a  united  effort 
upon  the  American  line. 

This  attempt  proved  successful.  The  Americans 
were  obliged  to  fly,  and  leave  a  free  passage  to  the 

British  troops  into  the  village  of  R .     But  although 

the  battle  was  over,  the  sharp  firing  of  musketry  still 
resounded  from  the  left  of  the  American  line.  Here 
a  few  gallant  men,  headed  by  William  Morris,  strug 
gled  with  thrice  their  number;  but,  on  the  point  of 
being  overpowered,  they  all  at  length  fled  but  one ;  — 
this  was  young  Morris.  Looking  back  for  a  moment 
upon  his  retreating  companions,  "Farewell,"  said  he; 
"  you  have  something  still  to  live  for  :  I  have  only  to 
die."  He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  a 
fatal  bullet  entered  his  breast,  and  laid  him  down  in  the 
repose  of  death. 

The  British  troops  now  entered  the  village  without 
further  interruption.  They  encamped  on  its  southern 


280  THE     HERMITESS. 

border  for  the  night.  They  committed  few  acts  of 
violence,  treating  the  place  perhaps  with  more  lenity 
in  consideration  that  it  was  one  of  the  few  "  tory 
towns  "  in  Connecticut.  Three  dwelling-houses,  how 
ever,  were  burnt,  to  give  notice  of  the  position  of  the 
army,  to  the  ships  that  lay  waiting  in  the  Sound  to 
receive  the  troops,  at  the  distance  of  somewhat  more  than 
a  dozen  miles.  The  aspiring  flames  of  village  dwellings 
were  indeed  an  appropriate  telegraph  to  point  out  the 
progress  of  an  invading  army. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  in  April,  that  the  British 
troops  in  the  early  dawn,  took  their  leave  of  the  village 

of  R .     It  was  the  same  morning,  that  Colonel 

Morris,  who  had  been  detained  by  circumstances  which 
we  need  not  detail,  returned  to  his  house.  He  found 
it  desolate  and  deserted.  He  soon  learnt  the  fate  of  his 
son  ;  and  on  inquiry  for  Lucrece  and  her  mother,  he 
found  that  the  latter  had  mysteriously  disappeared  from 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Rosevelt,  and  that  Lucrece  was  in  a 
state  of  indescribable  misery. 

Search  was  now  made  in  every  direction  for  Madame 
Eustace.  She  had  been  left  apparently  asleep  in  her 
room ;  but,  in  the  absence  of  her  attendant,  she  had  dis 
appeared,  and  left  no  means  by  which  her  fate  could 
be  traced.  The  search  was  continued  several  days,  but 
in  vain.  At  length,  Mrs.  Rosevelt  was  summoned  to 
New  York  by  the  dangerous  illness  of  a  relative.  She 

therefore  left  the  village  of  R ,  entertaining  most 

fearful  apprehensions  for  Madame  Eustace,  and  taking 
with  her  the  desolate  and  mourning  Lucrece. 


THE     HERMITESS.  281 

We  must  now  hurry  our  story  to  its  conclusion. 
Years  had  rolled  away;  the  British  troops  had  long 
since  left  our  shores,  and  Peace  waved  her  banners  over 
the  land.  The  unfortunate  Lucrece  had  found  a  quiet 
resting-place  in  the  tomb,  and  the  name  of  Madame  Eus 
tace  had  been  forgotten  in  the  village  of  R .  There 

was  one  individual  there,  indeed,  who  remembered  her 
still.  This  was  Colonel  Morris;  and  with  him  we 
resume  our  story. 

On  the  western  border  of  the  village  of  R lies 

a  range  of  broken  mountains,  forming  the  boundary 
between  the  states  of  Connecticut  and  New  York.  On 
the  western  side  of  this  mountain,  opposite  the  village 

of  R 1  is  situated  the  small  town  of  Salem.     To 

this  place  Colonel  Morris  had  occasion  to  go,  to  tran 
sact  business  of  importance,  about  fifteen  years  subse 
quent  to  the  period  of  which  we  have  been  speaking. 
This  was  not  accomplished  till  a  late  hour  in  the  after 
noon.  As  the  distance  in  a  direct  line  across  the 
mountain  to  his  house  would  scarce  exceed  four  miles, 
while  the  circuitous  road  usually  travelled  was  more 
than  double  that  distance,  he  chose  the  former,  though 
the  path  was  obscure,  and  wound  for  nearly  two  miles 
through  a  thick  forest. 

The  sun  was  sitting  behind  a  thick  cloud  as  Colonel 
Morris  began  to  push  his  fleet  horse  up  the  steep  ascent 
of  the  mountain.  There  seems  to  be  a  unity  of  feeling 
in  both  horse  and  rider,  when  the  night  begins  to  lend 
its  shadows  to  the  gloom  of  the  forest  around  them, 
inducing  both  unconsciously  to  urge  onward  with  a 
rapid  step.  It  was,  therefore,  but  a  short  time  before 


282  THE     HERMITESS. 

Colonel  Morris  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  moun 
tain.  He  was  now  obliged,  however,  to  reduce  the 
gait  of  his  horse  to  a  walk,  the  road  being  no  more  than 
a  narrow  bridle  path,  leading  through  a  crowded  forest 
of  lofty  trees.  The  darkness,  too,  had  approached  with 
uncommon  quickness,  occasioned  by  the  heavy  cloud  in 
the  west,  which  now  began  to  extend  rapidly  over  the  sky. 
But,  proceeding  without  accident,  Colonel  Morris  had 
penetrated  about  half  through  the  forest,  when  his  horse 
suddenly  stopped,  and  seemed  looking  forward  with 
intense  surprise.  In  vain  his  rider  attempted  to  urge 
him  forward  with  whip  and  spur. 

The  horse  trembled,  and  several  times  endeavored 
to  wheel  about,  as  if  alarmed  by  some  fearful  vision. 
Colonel  Morris  bent  his  eye  keenly  forward,  in  the  effort 
to  discover  the  occasion  of  the  animal's  terror.  He 
thought  he  could  perceive,  through  the  gloom,  the  figure 
of  a  human  being  standing  in  the  path.  Determined 
to  ascertain  the  truth,  he  sprang  from  his  horse,  tied 
him  hastily  to  the  branch  of  a  tree,  and  stepped  forward 
to  the  spot  where  the  figure  seemed  to  stand  ;  but  it  ap 
peared  to  recede  with  a  noiseless  step,  keeping  the  same 
distance  between  them. 

Having  proceeded  in  this  manner  a  considerable  dis 
tance,  Colonel  Morris  at  length  paused.  Something 
like  a  sensation  of  fear  began  to  steal  coldly  over  him. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  back,  when  he  heard 
his  name  distinctly  whispered,  as  if  by  a  female  voice. 
Determining  to  make  one  effort  more  to  solve  this  mys 
tery,  he  again  pursued  the  figure,  and  with  a  more 
rapid  step.  But  this  he  was  soon  obliged  to  abate,  for 


THE      HERMITESS.  283 

the  path  grew  more  rugged  and  narrow,  and  the  dark 
ness  was  now  so  thick  that  the  objects  around  were 
nearly  undistinguishable ;  but  the  dim  figure  still  flitted 
before  him,  and,  with  a  feverish  anxiety,  he  still  pursued. 

We  sometimes  look  back  upon  our  actions,  and  en 
deavor  in  vain  to  discover  the  motive  which  prompted 
them.  Whether  on  some  occasions,  uncommon  circum 
stances  lend  a  mysterious  influence  to  the  soul,  or  some 
latent  association  is  suddenly  roused  into  activity,  or 
the  fingers  of  unseen  spirits  are  playing  at  the  heart, 
and  guiding  it  on  to  its  destiny,  it  is  often  not  given  us 
to  know.  Colonel  Morris  was  a  man  of  more  than  fifty, 
and  remarkable  for  calmness  and  gravity.  But  he  was 
now  involved  in  a  wild  adventure  at  night,  on  a  solitary 
mountain,  and  lent  himself  as  freely  to  the  suggestions 
of  his  imagination,  as  the  youthful  hero  of  romance. 

Having  eagerly  pursued  his  object  for  nearly  an  hour, 
Colonel  Morris  at  length  lost  sight  of  the  image  that 
had  led  him  forward.  He  stopped,  and  began  to  think 
that  he  had  been  deluded  by  a  phantasm  of  the  brain. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  wipe  away  a 
mist ;  and  then  intently  looked  in  every  direction,  to 
discover  the  form  which  had  excited  such  an  irresisti 
ble  impulse  in  his  breast.  It  was  vain.  The  spaces 
beneath  the  thick  branches  of  the  trees  were  filled  only 
with  impenetrable  darkness.  He  listened  ;  't  was  silent 
as  the  house  of  death.  He  now  determined  to  give  up 
the  pursuit,  and  set  forward  on  his  return ;  but  he  soon 
discovered  that  he  had  entirely  lost  the  path,  and  was 
wandering  amid  the  trackless  woods.  This  discovery 
did  not,  however,  abate  his  efforts  to  proceed.  Believ- 


284  THE     HERMITESS. 

ing  that  he  knew  the  direction  to  his  horse,  he  pressed 
onward,  over  rock  and  ledge,  till  fatigue  obliged  him 
to  pause. 

At  this  moment,  the  cloud,  behind  which  the  sun  was 
setting  when  he  began  his  ride  up  the  mountain,  had 
entirely  involved  the  skies.  It  rolled  along  in  thick 
and  hurried  masses,  and  the  murmurs  from  the  distant 
hills  foretold  an  impending  storm.  Large,  scattered 
drops  of  rain  began  now  to  fall.  Colonel  Morris  cast 
anxiously  around  for  shelter.  A  faint  flash  of  lightning 
discovered  to  him  that  he  was  standing  on  the  very 
brink  of  a  fearful  precipice,  and  that  a  single  step 
might  plunge  him  to  its  bottom.  His  perplexity  was 
extreme.  He  stood  still,  waiting  for  another  flash  of 
lightning,  that  he  might  gain  a  more  exact  idea  of  his 
situation,  when  he  felt  his  hand  strongly  grasped  by 
another.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  pulled  forward, 
while  a  husky  voice  said  to  him,  "  Come,  Maurice,  come 
to  my  mountain  bower.  My  father  said  you  were  false ; 
but  I  told  him  you  were  true ;  and  you  have  come  again, 
and  I  have  brought  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  to 
unite  us.  It  is  the  voice  of  God,  and  what  he  hath 
joined,  man  shall  not  again  put  asunder."  While  this 
was  said,  Morris  was  led  down  a  slope  on  the  very  face 
of  the  precipice.  "  Here  you  are  safe,"  said  the  voice. 
"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  who  and  what  are  you?  "  said 
Morris.  There  was  a  momentary  pause ;  then  a  broad, 
clear  flash  of  lightning  followed  for  an  instant,  present 
ing  every  object  to  the  eye  distinctly,  as  at  the  clear  hour 
of  noon.  Morris's  question  was  answered.  He  saw 
standing  before  him  the  form  of  Madame  Eustace,  thin, 


THE     HERMITESS.  285 

pale,  and  wild ;  her  countenance  bearing  a  look  of  lofty 
excitement.  He  exclaimed,  involuntarily,  "  Good  God ! 
is  it  you  1 "  "  Whist,  whist,"  said  she,  "  you  will  scare 
my  children.  The  fox  sleeps  at  my  head,  and  the  rat 
tlesnake  at  my  feet.  I  sing  to  them,  and  they  are  happy. 
The  eagle  is  perched  on  the  roof  of  my  castle;  he 
knows  my  voice,  and  he  loves  it.  Say,  Maurice,  will 
you  come  and  live  with  us !  This  cave  shall  be  our 
palace ;  and  if  you  will  come,  I  will  be  more  beautiful 
and  happy  than  when  you  stole  me  from  my  father's 
house.  You  shall  be  king  of  the  valley  and  lord  of  the 
mountain." 

Here  the  voice  of  the  Hermitess  was  drowned  by  the 
thunder,  which  pealed  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain, 
and  shook  it  to  its  very  centre.  The  lightning  came, 
too,  in  thick  dazzling  flashes,  and  the  water  began  to 
pour  from  the  cloud  in  torrents.  Morris  perceived 
that  he  was  sheltered  from  the  storm  by  a  projecting 
rock,  which  formed  a  sort  of  cave  that  seemed  the 
regular  abode  of  a  human  being.  He  had  before  heard 
that  a  wild  woman  lived  alone  in  the  mountain,  and  he 
now  perceived  that  woman  to  be  Madame  Eustace.  It 
is  not  easy  to  depict  his  feelings.  The  extraordinary 
manner  in  which  he  had  been  led  to  the  spot,  the  wild- 
ness  of  the  place,  and  the  terrific  aspect  which  nature 
assumed,  —  all  contributed  to  impress  him  with  the 
idea  that  some  frightful  catastrophe  was  about  to  take 
place.  He  would  have  fled  from  the  spot,  and  trusted 
himself  to  the  wild  uproar  of  the  elements,  had  it  not 
been  a  matter  of  extreme  hazard  to  attempt  it  during 
the  darkness.  The  cave  in  which  he  was  sheltered 

25 


286  THE     HERMITESS. 

overhung  a  precipice  of  more  than  a  hundred  feet ;  and 
the  path  which  led  from  it  to  the  top  of  the  rock,  was 
a  narrow  projection,  scarcely  a  yard  in  width.  It  was 
down  this  giddy  footway  he  had  been  led  by  Madame 
Eustace  in  the  darkness ;  and  he  could  not  but  shudder 
to  think  how  slight  a  deviation  would  have  plunged  him 
to  the  bottom  of  the  gulf  that  yawned  beneath. 

Colonel  Morris  was  at  length  able  to  take  a  calm  sur 
vey  of  his  situation ;  the  result  of  which  determined 
him  to  remain  till  morning,  unless  something  should 
intervene  to  require  some  other  course  of  conduct. 
Accordingly,  he  sat  down  on  a  projection  of  the  rock, 
and  remained  in  a  state  of  watchful  anxiety.  The  Her- 
mitess  filled  up  the  intervals  between  the  thunder  with 
her  wild  conversation.  But,  at  length,  the  storm  began 
to  abate ;  the  flashes  of  lightning  were  fainter  and  less 
frequent,  and  the  rain  fell  less  heavily.  In  half  an  hour, 
the  western  sky  was  clear,  and  the  low  muttering  of  the 
distant  thunder  was  scarcely  distinguished  by  the  ear. 
The  full,  round  moon  was  rising  over  the  thunder-cloud 
in  the  east,  pouring  a  silver  light  along  the  edge  of  the 
dark  mass  that  lay  beneath, 

Morris  now  looked  out  upon  the  scene.  All  around 
was  calm,  and  nothing  disturbed  the  silence  save  the 
rippling  waters  that  flowed  in  a  thousand  currents  down 
the  sides  of  the  mountain.  At  this  moment,  the  Her- 
mitess  came  to  his  side.  "  Look  at  yonder  cloud," 
said  she,  pointing  to  the  east ;  "  't  is  an  emblem  of  this 
dark  life  we  live.  Look  up  to  heaven ;  do  you  see  the 
crystal  palaces  that  are  glimmering  there  ?  'T  is  there 
the  pure  spirit  shall  find  rest  when  our  sad  work  is  over 


THE     HERMITESS.  287 

here.  Come,  come,"  said  she,  drawing  him  forward, 
"let  us  go  now."  Accordingly,  she  led  him  up  the 
narrow  path  ;  and  striding  forward,  bade  him  follow  her. 
He  did  so ;  and  after  a  long  and  wandering  route,  she 
led  him  to  the  place  where  his  horse  was  standing.  "  Go 
to  your  home,"  said  she,  "  and  I  will  go  to  mine. 
You  will  sleep  on  your  pillow  of  down,  and  I  will  lay 
my  cold  bones  on  my  bed  of  rock.  It  matters  not,  for 
we  are  going  away  soon.  Farewell,  till  we  meet  again." 
Morris  now  mounted  his  horse,  and  returned  without 
further  adventure  to  his  house. 

#*####*# 
We  now  come  to  a  period  several  years  subsequent 
to  the  foregoing  adventure.  Morris  was  now  an  old 
man ;  with  wealth  indeed,  but  without  children  or 
friends.  His  soul  seemed  divided  between  religion  and 
avarice ;  and,  while  he  paid  a  strict  observance  to  the 
rites  of  the  one,  he  seemed  heartily  devoted  to  the  other. 
The  time  had  arrived  when  he  was  apparently  drawing 
near  the  close  of  his  career.  He  had  been  for  some 
months  confined  to  his  house ;  but  on  a  pleasant  Sab 
bath  morning  in  the  summer,  he  found  himself  able  to 
attend  "  meeting,"  it  being  "  sacrament  day."  As  the 
members  of  the  church,  among  whom  was  Morris,  had 
gathered  round  the  altar,  and  the  clergyman  was  about 
to  commence  the  solemn  ceremonies  of  the  Lord's  sup 
per,  a  woman  of  very  extraordinary  appearance  was 
seen  to  enter  the  church.  She  was  extremely  aged ; 
her  long  white  hair  fell  over  her  cheeks  and  down  her 
shoulders;  her  eye,  which  seemed  once  to  have  been 
black,  was  now  nearly  colorless.  She  wore  round  her 


288  THE     HER3MITESS. 

head  a  black  hood,  and  over  her  shoulders  a  long  dark 
shawl.  On  her  arms  were  pinned  a  number  of  oak 
leaves,  and  an  oak  branch  was  wound  around  her  head. 
No  surprise  was  manifested  at  the  entrance  of  this 
singular  being,  into  the  meeting-house.  She  had  long 
been  known  to  the  inhabitants,  under  the  name  of  the 
Hermitess,  as  the  occupant  of  a  cave  in  the  mountain 
which  lay  west  of  the  village.  For  some  years  before 
her  residence  was  known,  she  appeared  occasionally  in 
the  towns  that  bordered  the  mountain  ;  and  usually  at 
tended  one  of  the  churches  on  Sunday.  The  follow 
ing  description  of  her  is  selected  from  the  many  that 
have  been  given  : 

Her  long,  snowy  locks,  like  the  winter  drift, 

On  the  wind  were  backward  cast ; 
And  her  crippled  form  glided  by  so  swift, 

You  had  said  't  were  a  ghost  that  passed. 

And  her  house  was  a  cave  in  a  giddy  rock, 

That  o'erhung  a  sullen  vale ; 
And  't  was  deeply  scarred  by  the  lightning's  shock, 

And  swept  by  the  vengeful  gale. 

As  alone  on  the  cliff  she  musingly  sate, 

The  fox  at  her  fingers  would  snap ; 
The  raven  would  sit  on  her  snow-white  pate, 

And  the  rattlesnake  coil  in  her  lap. 

And  the  vulture  looked  down  with  a  welcoming  eye, 

As  he  stooped  in  his  airy  swing  j 
And  the  haughty  eagle  hovered  so  nigh, 

As  to  fan  her  long  locks  with  his  wing. 


THE     HERMITESS.  289 

But,  when  Winter  rolled  dark  its  sullen  wave, 

From  the  west,  with  gusty  shock, 
Old  Sarah,  deserted,  crept  cold  to  her  cave, 

And  slept,  without  bed,  on  her  rock. 

No  fire  illumined  her  dismal  den ; 

Yet  a  tattered  Bible  she  read ; 
For  she  saw  in  the  dark,  with  a  wizard  ken, 

And  talked  with  the  troubled  dead. 


Let  us  now  return  to  our  story.  Colonel  Morris  was 
the  only  individual  that  seemed  particularly  to  mark  the 
entrance  of  this  singular  woman  into  the  church.  His 
eye  followed  her  along  the  aisle  ;  and,  as  she  approach 
ed  the  pew  where  he  was  sitting,  and  took  her  seat  by 
his  side,  he  seemed  palsied  with  dismay.  His  habitual 
self-command,  however,  did  not  now  desert  him ;  he 
forced  an  appearance  of  calmness,  and  remained  to  the 
end  of  the  service.  As  the  Hermitess  was  about  to 
leave  the  house,  she  turned  her  eye  for  the  first  time  on 
the  face  of  Morris.  For  nearly  a  minute,  she  stood  be 
fore  him,  fixing  her  wild  gaze  with  inexpressible  solem 
nity  upon  him.  She  then  slowly  raised  her  hand,  and, 
displaying  a  brown,  shrunken  arm,  raised  it  over  her 
head,  pointing  ominously  to  heaven,  and  said  in  a  whis 
per,  "  We  are  going  soon  ! " 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  of  a  summer  moon 
light  night  in  New  England.  That  which  followed  the 
day  we  have  been  speaking  of,  at  the  hour  of  twelve, 

saw  the  village  of  R sleeping  in  profound  silence 

beneath  the  light  of  the  "cold,  round  moon."  All 
seemed  peaceful  as  the  still  palace  of  death.  Every 

25* 


290  THE     HERMITESS. 

window  was  dark ;  every  house  was  hushed  in  repose, 
save  one.  There  was  one  dwelling  surrounded  with 
aged  elms  and  drooping  willows,  through  whose  deep 
shadows  the  lamp  from  a  chamber  threw  a  dim  flame. 
Within  this  chamber  lay  Colonel  Morris,  on  his  death 
bed.  The  room  was  faintly  lighted,  and  around  the  couch 
stood  several  persons,  expecting  every  moment  to  wit 
ness  the  last  struggle.  Not  a  whisper  broke  from  any 
lip,  and  nothing  disturbed  the  mournful  stillness  of  the 
place,  except  the  quick  breathing  of  the  dying  man. 
At  length  a  light  step  was  heard,  and  an  aged  woman, 
with  gray  locks  and  a  wild  expression  of  countenance, 
approached  the  bedside.  She  spoke  not,  but  fixed  her 
eye  keenly  upon  the  face  of  Morris,  who  now  rose  in 
his  bed,  and  glared  upon  her  with  an  expression  more 
fearful  than  that  which  death  stamps  upon  the  face.  All 
around  were  paralysed  with  awe  and  astonishment : 
and  the  wild  woman  and  the  dying  man  gazed  at  each 
other  for  some  moments.  At  length  Morris  raised 
his  hand  as  if  to  clear  his  eyes  from  a  mist ;  but 
the  cold,  drooping  fingers  refused  to  perform  their  of 
fice  ;  the  relaxed  arm  fell  by  his  side,  and  at  the  same 
moment  he  sunk  back  upon  his  pillow.  His  attendants 
sprang  to  him ;  but  the  spirit  had  passed :  they  turned 
to  look  for  the  apparition ;  but  that  too  had  vanished. 

The  next  morning,  a  farmer  had  occasion  to  cross 
the  mountain  in  the  direction  of  the  wild  woman's  cave. 
The  place  was  now  well  known,  and  was  sometimes  re 
sorted  to  by  the  villagers.  The  farmer  turned  a  little 
aside  from  his  path  to  visit  the  spot.  He  found  the 
Hermitess  reposing  on  her  bed  of  rock.  He  spoke  to 


THE     HERMITESS.  291 

her,  but  she  answered  not;    he  approached,  and  found 
that  she  was  cold  as  the  stone  on  which  she  slept. 
**#*## 

Such  is  the  tale  of  the  Hermitess.  We  have  now 
but  to  add  such  explanations  as  the  seeming  mystery  of 
the  story  may  demand.  The  reader  will  return  with  us 
a  moment  to  the  spot  where  Pierre  Maurice  descended 
from  his  carriage  and  met  Moribond.  They  fought  in 
the  moonlight  for  some  time,  when  Pierre  was  wounded. 
Moribond  left  him  with  his  servants,  and  returned  to 
his  residence,  whither  he  had  directed  his  daughter  to 
be  conducted.  He  was  influenced  by  the  suspicion 
that  the  views  of  Pierre  were  base ;  to  which  a  state 
bordering  on  insanity  had  added  excitement. 

The  wounded  Pierre  was  taken  by  his  servants  to  a 
hotel  in  Paris.  His  twin-brother  Philippe,  who  had 
been  supposed  dead,  had  at  length  escaped  from  prison 
in  England,  and  arrived  at  the  hotel  just  before  Pierre 
was  brought  in.  The  latter  had  only  time  to  execute  a 
will,  giving  his  fortune  to  Lucille,  and  to  commend  her 
to  the  care  of  his  brother,  who  promised  a  faithful  exe 
cution  of  his  wishes. 

Philippe  Maurice  had  now  a  powerful  struggle  in  his 
breast.  One  act  of  baseness  would  give  him  possession 
of  his  brother's  ample  fortune.  He  resolved  to  secure 
it.  Accordingly,  his  brother  was  privately  buried,  and 
his  death  concealed.  He  gave  himself  forth  as  Pierre 
Maurice,  which  pretence  his  uncommon  resemblance 
enabled  him  to  support.  He  signed  the  necessary  pa 
pers,  and  set  out  for  America  in  possession  of  his 
brother's  estate,  which  he  had  converted  into  money. 


292  THE     HERMITESS. 

On  his  arrival  at  Quebec,  having  changed  his  name 
from  Maurice  to  Morris,  he  concealed  his  return,  and 
taking  his  wife  and  child,  settled  himself  in  the  obscure 

village  of  R .     Here  he  had  since  lived,  devoted  to 

the  increase  of  his  fortune,  and  absorbing  every  other 
sentiment  in  the  passion  of  avarice  :  his  life  was  a  per 
petual  struggle  between  the  claims  of  conscience  and 
the  still  stronger  dominion  of  mammon.  His  story 
shows  that  an  act  of  successful  villany,  hidden  in  the 
breast  of  its  perpetrator,  is  sometimes  tracked  to  its 
home  by  the  events  of  Providence,  and  deeply  avenged, 
even  after  years  of  seeming  security  have  rolled  away ; 
and  that  he  who  takes  upon  his  soul  the  commission  of 
crime,  is  likely  to  bring  ruin  upon  all  whose  fortunes 
become  woven  with  his  own. 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS.* 

ON  the  twenty-seventh,  twenty-eighth,  and  twenty- 
ninth  of  July,  the  citizens  of  Paris  celebrated  the  three 
glorious  days.  On  the  first  and  second  day,  there  were 
pavilions,  booths,  and  tents  filled  with  toys  and  cakes, 
throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the  Champs  Elysees ; 
there  were  rope-dancers  and  tumblers,  dancing  dogs, 
and  frisking  monkeys.  On  the  latter  day,  there  was  a 
grand  review  of  sixty  thousand  troops.  They  extended 
from  the  Barriere  du  Trone,  along  the  Boulevards,  to 
the  Barriere  de  PEtoile.  The  king  and  his  suite  made 
a  procession  in  front  of  the  extended  line.  He  then  took 
his  station  in  the  Place  Vendome,  where  the  whole 
army  passed  before  him.  The  soldiers  presented  arms  at 
the  word  of  command,  and  at  the  word  of  command, 
cried  "  Vive  le  Roi."  The  ceremony  continued  for  about 
seven  hours,  during  the  whole  of  which  time,  his  majes 
ty  was  on  horseback.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  the  king,  the  duke  of  Orleans,  the  queen,  &c. 
passed  in  front  of  our  lodgings.  The  king  was  on 
horseback,  and  graciously  saluted  the  mob  as  he  passed, 
they  also  graciously  saluting  him.  He  frequently  bow 
ed,  sometimes  took  off  his  hat,  and  often  laid  his  hand 
impressively  upon  his  heart.  He  shook  hands  with  sev- 

*  From  a  Memorandum  Book,  1832. 


294  SKETCHES      IN      PARIS. 

eral  of  the  people,  some  of  whom  being  rather  shabby, 
it  excited  the  ridicule  of  the  Carlists.  The  display  made 
by  the  troops,  a  great  part  of  whom  passed  in  front  of 
our  hotel,  was  truly  magnificent.  The  lancers  and  cui 
rassiers  in  particular,  made  a  very  gallant  appearance. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  magnificent  illumination 
of  the  gardens  and  public  buildings.  The  Louvre 
beamed  with  thousands  of  lamps,  and  every  part  of  the 
Tuilleries  shone  with  pyramids  of  fire.  The  hotel 
of  the  minister  of  finance,  was  illuminated  with  gas, 
and  the  chamber  of  deputies  was  exceedingly  brilliant. 
The  vast  dome  of  the  Pantheon  glittered  as  with  dia 
monds.  Near  the  chamber  of  deputies,  and  far  aloft  in 
the  air,  seeming  to  be  set  in  the  sky,  and  self-supported, 
blazed  the  star  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur.  It  was  of 
many  colors,  and  had  a  magical  effect.  All  Paris  was 
abroad  ;  all  Paris  shone  with  lustre  and  light ;  no  other 
city  could  exhibit  such  a  fairy  scene.  Aladdin's  lamp 
alone  could  produce  such  enchanting  effects.  There 
was  no  boisterous  noise  in  the  streets  or  in  the  gardens. 
The  people  ebbed  and  flowed  like  a  tide  from  one 
scene  of  interest  to  another,  but  you  heard  only  the 
moving  feet,  and  the  mingled  hum  of  approving  and 
admiring  voices. 

About  9  o'clock,  rockets  began  to  ascend,  slowly 
at  first,  and  after  long  intervals ;  but  soon  they  became 
more  frequent,  and  now  they  were  of  various  colors, 
and  stars  of  many  hues  seemed  to  drop  from  the  skies. 
Then  there  were  wheels  of  fire,  and  towers  and  castles, 
and  a  noise  like  musketry,  and  then  there  was  darkness, 
and  all  was  still.  But  suddenly  a  scene  of  indescribable 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  295 

beauty  broke  upon  the  view.  Ten  thousand  rockets  of 
many  colors,  began  at  once  to  rise  upon  the  air.  These 
were  so  disposed  as  to  form  a  boquet  of  fire,  nearly  a 
thousand  feet  in  height.  They  continued  to  ascend  for 
several  minutes,  exhibiting  a  prolonged  display  of  this 
grand  vision,  till  the  sight  was  almost  weary  of  its 
beauty  and  magnificence.  It  then  vanished,  and  half  a 
million  of  people  talked  of  it  for  a  month. 

##*#*#** 
The  Louvre  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  interesting 
places  in  Paris.  From  fifty  to  a  hundred  artists  employ 
themselves  here  in  copying  pictures.  I  often  saw  M — , 
our  countryman,  there,  who  was  painting  a  picture  of 
the  gallery,  in  which  he  introduced  some  of  the  master 
pieces  of  the  celebrated  artists.  He  has  been  more  than 
two  years  in  Italy,  and  has  seen  all  the  collections  there  ; 
yet  he  declares  it  to  be  his  opinion,  that  the  Louvre  is 
superior  to  any  one  of  them.  The  moonlight  pieces  of 
Vernet  appear  to  me,  not  only  as  the  best  moonlight 
pieces  ever  painted,  but  also  as  among  the  sweetest 
landscapes  ever  executed.  The  landscapes  of  Dujardin 
are  also  much  after  my  own  heart.  There  are  several 
pictures  of  Raphael,  not  one  of  which,  however,  excited 
my  admiration ;  I  greatly  prefer  the  pictures  of  De 
Vinci,  Titian  and  Guido.  Correggio  I  admire  above  all 
other  painters.  Domenichino  is  admirable.  Rubens  I 
detest.  Rembrandt's  management  of  light  and  shade  is 
wonderfully  fine,  but  he  has  somewhat  of  the  gross 
and  monstrous  fancy  of  his  master,  Rubens,  in  drawing 
the  human  face  and  figure.  On  the  whole,  the  gal 
lery  of  the  Louvre  becomes  absolutely  fascinating,  after 


296  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

it  has  been  visited  for  a  few  times.  At  first  you  are  be 
wildered,  and  fix  your  attention  upon  no  one  particular 
picture.  But  this  passes  off,  and  you  begin  to  make  ac 
quaintance  with  this  painting  and  that.  Soon  you  have 
your  favorites,  and  you  love  to  look  at  them  again  and 
again.  It  often  happens  that  the  sudden  aspect  of  a  pic 
ture  that  you  have  frequently  dwelt  upon,  seems  to  salute 
you,  and  excites  an  emotion  like  that  produced  by  a 
favorite  piece  of  music,  suddenly  struck  up,  when  you 
did  not  expect  it. 

******** 

M.  S 's  house  in  the  Place  Vendome  is  consider 
ed  one  of  the  finest  in  Paris.  It  occupies  an  extensive 
square,  and  the  whole  establishment  forms  a  quadrangle, 
one  side  of  which  consists  of  the  stables ;  the  other  three 
sides,  of  the  house.  One  side  is  occupied  by  two  suites 
of  rooms ;  that  on  the  first  floor  belonging  to  Monsieur  ; 

that  on  the  second  belonging  to  Madame.     M.  S 's 

apartments  consist  of  an  anteroom,  a  library,  a  break 
fast-room,  sleeping-room,  dressing-room,  and  bathing- 
room.  The  apartments  of  Madame  S are  six  or 

seven  in  number,  beautifully  and  tastefully  furnished. 
The  last  of  these  opens  into  a  conservatory,  filled  with  a 
collection  of  choice  plants.  The  second  side  of  the 
house  contains  a  grand  saloon,  dining-room,  &c.  &c. ; 
the  third  is  occupied  by  the  servants,  for  culinary  pur 
poses,  a  dormitory,  &c. 

The  best  way  to  describe  this  establishment,  is  to 
begin  with  the  stables.  These  are  of  marble,  and 
are  as  carefully  kept  as  a  parlor.  The  horses  are 
about  twenty-five  in  number,  and  are  all  English. 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  297 

Some  of  them  cost  ten  thousand  francs  each.  The 
coach-house  exhibits  six  or  seven  different  kinds  of 
vehicles,  one  or  two  of  which  are  in  a  style  of  magnifi 
cence  altogether  royal.  Madame  S 's  barouche  is 

certainly  more  beautiful  than  that  of  the  queen.  The 
harnesses,  saddles,  whips,  and  other  equipments,  are 
superb. 

I  can  hardly  stop  to  describe  the  macaws  which  flour 
ish  in  the  beautiful  green  court,  within  the  quadrangle, 
in  all  the  brilliancy  of  eastern  climes  ;  but  I  must  not 
pass  by  the  aviary.  There  are  here  a  multitude  of  lit 
tle  twittering  birds,  more  exquisitely  beautiful  than  any 
thing  I  had  ever  conceived  of.  They  are  of  various 
forms  too,  and  possess  a  variety  of  physiognomy,  as  well 
as  costume.  Some  are  of  a  grave  and  solemn  demeanor, 
while  others  are  perpetually  engaged  in  hopping  about,- 
jerking  their  tails,  and  singing  jolly  songs.  Some  are 
of  one  color,  and  some  of  another,  and  some  of  many 
colors.  Some  are  inconceivably  brilliant,  while  others 
are  in  solemn  black.  There  are  birds  from  India,  and 
Africa,  and  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and  from  Mexico, 
and  one  I  recognized  as  my  countryman  —  a  blue  jay  ! 
How  often  has  this  officious  fellow  spoiled  my  sport 
in  the  woods,  by  giving  the  alarm  to  the  tenants  of  the 
forest  —  and  how  had  I  learned  to  hate  him  !  but  now, 
in  this  strange  land,  I  met  him  as  cordially  as  if  he  had 
been  one  of  my  own  kith  and  kin.  Beside  these  beauti 
ful  creatures  in  the  aviary,  there  are  monkeys  in  the 
menagerie  of  the  most  recherche  pattern,  squirrels  from 
the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  many  other  things, 
worthy  of  description  —  if  I  had  time  and  space  for  it. 

26 


298  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

But  let  us  leave  the  aviary  and  the  menagerie  —  which 
I  mention  only  as  an  index  to  the  scale  upon  which  the 
establishment  is  constructed —  and  enter  the  grand  stair 
case.  This  is  of  white  marble,  and  is  worthy  of  a  pal 
ace.  It  leads  to  various  suites  of  apartments,  all  of 
them  magnificently  furnished,  and  decorated  with  paint 
ings.  The  audience  room  has  two  capital  pictures,  by 
Horace  Vernet ;  one  is  a  tempest,  and  represents  a  num 
ber  of  persons  upon  a  cliff,  witnessing  the  shipwreck  of 
their  friends.  This  has  been  lithographed,  but  the 
print  does  no  justice  to  the  painting.  The  other  pic 
ture  represents  M.  S ,  with  nine  or  ten  of  his 

companions,  and  with  eight  horses  attached  to  his 
hunting  carriage,  setting  out  upon  their  silvan  sports. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  effective  pictures  I  ever  saw. 

The  saloon  is  of  princely  dimensions.  The  furniture 
is  adorned  with  gilding  so  rich,  as  to  appear  like  mas 
sive  gold.  The  chairs  and  sofas  are  covered  with  crim 
son  silk  of  the  richest  and  glossiest  manufacture.  The 
tapestry  is  also  of  crimson  silk.  The  ceilings  and 
wainscotings  have  rich  gilding,  and  the  mirrors  are 
superb.  The  paintings  on  the  ceiling  are  by  the  first 
artists.  On  the  whole,  there  is  probably  no  room  in 
Europe,  more  gorgeously  decorated. 

But  who  is  the  proprietor  of  this  palace  ?  He  is  the 
son  of  a  Prussian  banker,  with  an  income  of  one  hun 
dred  and  sixty  thousand  dollars  a  year.  He  is  young, 
has  a  pretty  wife  and  several  children.  But  he  is  still 
unhappy  —  dissatisfied  —  ennuye  —  and  declares  that 
life  in  the  midst  of  all  his  luxuries  is  a  burthen  scarcely 
capable  of  being  supported.  He  occupies  his  house  in 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  299 

Paris  very  little,  never  rides  in  his  coaches,  and  seldom 
mounts  his  horses.  He  has  a  magnificent  library,  but 
never  opens  a  book.  He  has  a  sort  of  armory,  where  he 
has  the  most  beautiful  fowling-pieces,  and  rifles  of  every 
description,  and  weapons  of  many  ages  and  lands  —  and 
yet  they  remain  untouched.  His  bed  is  of  eider-down, 
but  he  never  sleeps  there.  His  dressing-room  is  full  of 
cosmetics  and  every  delicate  contrivance  that  art  can 
devise  for  decorating  the  person  ;  but  these  are  never 
disturbed  from  the  symmetrical  arrangement  in  which 
the  valet  has  placed  them.  The  bathing-room  has  mar 
ble  fountains,  into  which  cold  or  warm  streams  will 
gush  at  command,  but  the  "  Abana  and  Pharpar  "  are 
rarely  honored  with  a  visit.  The  owner  of  all  these 
princely  possessions  has  ceased  to  find  pleasure  in  lux 
uries,  and  generally  spends  his  time  in  passing  idly  from 
one  country-seat  to  another,  vainly  endeavoring  to 
shake  off  the  weariness  which  oppresses  him.  He  has 
not  mind  enough  to  be  roused  by  the  great  moral 
objects  which  present  themselves  to  the  consideration  of 
the  philosopher,  and  he  has  not  character  enough  to 
attach  himself  to  public  affairs.  He  appears  to  be  like 
a  traveller  upon  a  dead  level,  where  the  prospect  never 
varies,  where  the  sky  never  changes  —  and  where  no 
vicissitude  is  known,  save  that  which  springs  from  the 
rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.  He  has  no  power  by 
which  he  can  elevate  himself  above  this  flat  existence ; 
he  cannot  ascend  the  mountains,  and  survey  the  endless 
variety  which  is  open  to  the  vision  of  the  philosopher ; 
he  cannot  climb  to  those  steepling  points  from  which 
the  gifted  vision  may  survey  the  boundless  scene,  and 


300  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

find  materials  for  contemplation,  while  life  endures. 
It  appears  then,  that  an  individual  of  exalted  wealth 
may  himself  be  incapable  of  exaltation,  and  in  posses 
sion  of  that  which  mankind  most  eagerly  covet,  may 
still  be  stricken  with  a  poverty  more  dreadful  than  that 
which  blanches  the  cheek  and  withers  the  limb. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  #  # 

The  Palais  Royal  is  an  immense  double  quadrangle. 
One  part  is  occupied  as  a  palace;  the  other  is  devoted 
to  shops  and  cafes.  The  palace  is  not  now  inhabited 
by  any  part  of  the  royal  family,  yet  it  is  magnificently 
furnished.  The  pictures  are  of  various  ages  and  merits. 
In  the  "  Gallerie  des  Talbeaux  "  there  are  several  paint 
ings  illustrative  of  the  history  of  France.  Among  these 
is  a  picture  of  Franklin's  reception  at  the  court  of 
Louis  XVI.  The  philosopher  is  drawn  with  his  cane 
in  one  hand,  and  his  hat  in  the  other.  He  is  dressed 
in  a  quaker-colored  coat  of  the  olden  fashion,  and  is 
making  an  awkward  bow  to  the  young  king  and  queen. 
The  picture  is  a  vile  thing,  though  well  meant.  The 
head  of  Franklin  is  not  much  larger  in  proportion  to  the 
body,  than  would  become  a  peacock.  The  artist  how 
ever,  meant  no  harm ;  for  he  made  his  king  and  queen 
consist  almost  wholly  of  the  two  nether  limbs,  and 
seemed  to  regard  the  head  as  a  thing  of  no  other  impor 
tance  than  as  a  kind  of  finish,  like  the  knob  to  the  top  of 
a  coffee  urn. 

The  "  Salon  du  trone"  has  a  throne  well  gilt,  and 
other  parts  of  the  room  make  a  display  of  gilding  and 
crimson  tapestry.  The  "  Salon  dore"  is  more  gor 
geous.  The  "  Salon  du  conseil"  has  a  writing-desk 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  301 

filled  with  nice  stationery  and  writing  materials,  which 
I  envied.     The  other  rooms  were  not  remarkable. 

The  court  of  the  Palais  Royal  —  I  mean  the  larger,  for 
there  are  two  —  is  a  large  space  ornamented  with  trees, 
shrubs  and  flowers.  Among  these  there  are  walks,  and 
in  the  centre  is  a  gushing  fountain,  sending  up  its 
waters,  and  forming  the  figure  of  a  vase.  In  this  beau 
tiful  garden,  you  may  see  hundreds  of  people  of  every 
age  and  sex.  Many  of  them  are  men,  occupied  in  read 
ing  books,  or  newspapers ;  many  of  them  are  women, 
regaling  their  eyes  with  the  various  objects  around 
them.  Some  sit  still  for  hours,  looking  pensively  upon 
the  scene ;  some  move  about,  and  seem  filled  with  gay 
ideas ;  some  have  poodle  dogs  which  they  lead,  and 
others  have  poodle  dogs  by  which  they  are  led.  It  is 
altogether  one  of  the  most  pleasing  scenes  in  Paris,  and 
as  the  stranger  is  never  the  object  of  a  rude  gaze,  he 
may  walk  about,  and  survey  the  objects  around  him, 
with  as  much  self-possession,  as  if  he  were  invisible. 
The  people  themselves,  never  seem  in  the  slightest 
degree  embarrassed.  Each  individual  "  doeth  that 
which  seemeth  good  in  his  own  eyes."  They  sit  or 
saunter  as  they  please ;  they  look  at  a  book,  or  at 
vacancy,  as  they  list.  Some  of  the  women  are  engaged 
in  needle-work,  and  some  watch  the  gambols  of  their 
children.  Those  who  have  no  children  watch  their 
puppies.  The  heart  of  a  French  woman  must  have 
something  to  cherish,  and  it  must  be  a  thing  that  she 
can  hold  in  her  lap ;  if  it  is  not  a  child,  with  which  she 
is  blessed,  a  shaggy  dog,  with  a  hairy  nose,  and  a  spite- 


26* 


302  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

ful  expression,  is  the  indemnity  which  Providence  or 
choice  supplies. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  scene  we  have  been 
describing,  is  a  court  surrounded  by  four  sides  of  the 
Palais  Royal.  These  are  occupied  as -shops  and  cafes, 
and  they  are  the  most  brilliant  in  Paris.  There  must 
be  several  hundred  of  them.  At  one  corner  are  mag 
nificent  flowers,  where  you  may  purchase  a  pink  for 
your  button-hole,  or  a  boquet  for  your  mistress.  Pro 
ceeding  from  this  point,  and  passing  around  the  court, 
you  may  feast  your  eyes  with  endless  inventions  and 
devices  which  tempt  you,  either  by  addressing  the  pal 
ate,  your  vanity,  or  your  fancy.  There  are  lobsters 
boiled,  and  lobsters  crawling,  and  huge  fishes,  and  creep 
ing  turtles,  and  black  eels,  and  prodigious  oysters,  and 
other  emigrants  from  the  deep,  who  have  come  by 
steam,  to  seduce  you  into  a  fish  dinner.  And  there  are 
magnificent  shell  combs,  carved  into  many  forms,  and 
there  is  chocolate  mixed  with  sugar,  delicious  to  the 
taste,  and  shaped  into  innocent  as  well  as  forbidden 
images.  And  there  are  quizzing-glasses,  decked  with 
pearls,  and  books  with  their  title-pages  displayed,  and 
the  name  of  La  Martine,  de  la  Vigne,  and  Beranger, 
salute  you  everywhere.  And  there  are  whole  windows 
filled  with  choice  jewelry  —  and  pearls  and  diamonds 
seem  as  rife  as  the  pebbles  of  the  sea-shore ;  and  there 
are  many  other  beautiful  things.  And  there  is  one  shop 
filled  with  merchandise,  and  as  you  pass  along,  a  pen 
etrating  voice  enters  into  your  ear,  and  thrills  your 
heart  with  the  sound,  "  Vingt  cinq  sous  cliaque!" 
Here,  O  traveller,  pause,  and  purchase  a  balloon  for 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  303 

your  boy,  a  set  of  lilliputian  porcelain  for  your  daugh 
ter —  buy  something  for  each  of  your  neighbor's  chil 
dren,  and  secure  to  yourself  friends  and  favorites  for 
ever,  at  this  temple  of  "  vingt  cinq  sous  chaque"  — 
twenty-five  cents  each ! 

######## 

But  let  us  quit  this  dangerous  spot,  and  pay  a  visit  to 
the  Garden  of  the  Tuilleries.  Take  my  arm  and  we 
will  go  by  the  Rue  St.  Honori.  Let  us  step  across  the 
street  to  Forr's,  and  order  a  supply  of  boots  and  shoes, 
for  they  are  the  best  and  the  cheapest  in  the  world. 
Take  care  of  that  omnibus,  for  it  will  run  over  you. 
See  how  that  driver  makes  his  trumpet  play  from  beneath 
his  seat,  by  pulling  a  string.  Look  at  your  pantaloons, 
for  that  thundering  cuirassier  has  splashed  the  mud  all 
over  you !  Observe  that  ghastly  display  of  pork  and 
sausages  on  the  other  side  of  the  street !  Oh  !  these  beg 
gars — these  beggars!  "Get  away,  get  away!"  "Je 
rial  point  d?  argent,  allez  vous  en!  "  Here  we  are  at 
ihe^Rue  Vingt  ncuf  de  Juillet,  and  there  are  the  Gar 
dens  of  the  Tuilleries.  Let  us  enter,  and  look  about  at 
our  leisure. 

#         #         *         *         *         *         #         # 

Let  it  be  premised,  that  these  gardens  are  not  devoted 
to  the  cultivation  of  turnips  and  cabbage ;  nor  are  they 
embraced  within  the  half-rood  dimensions  of  our  Amer 
ican  gardens.  They  consist  of  a  level  space  of  many 
acres,  bounded  on  the  east  by  the  front  of  the  palace  of 
the  Tuilleries,  on  the  south  by  the  Seine,  on  the  west 
by  the  Place  de  Concorde,  and  on  the  north  by  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli  —  the  finest  street  in  Paris.  Through  the 


304  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

centre  is  a  broad  avenue  opening  into  the  Champ  Ely- 
sees,  and  affording,  through  the  long  vista,  a  magnificent 
view  of  the  Arch  de  /'  Etoile.  But  this  rectangular 
description  is  not  fitted  to  my  purpose,  which  is  to  place 
the  beautiful  scene  at  one  glance  before  you.  Imagine 
yourself,  therefore,  in  the  midst  of  the  scene.  On  one 
hand  there  are  fountains  and  marble  statues,  in  the  midst 
of  green  lawns.  In  some  places  the  waters  are  at  rest, 
in  others  they  are  thrown  into  the  air,  descending  like 
showers  of  crystal.  Sometimes  you  see  the  gold-fish 
shooting  through  the  element,  or  the  swan  slowly  mov 
ing  along  its  surface,  or  perhaps  you  only  observe  the 
reflection  of  the  rich  flowers  which  hang  over  the  mar 
ble  edges  of  the  basin,  and  seem,  Narcissus-like,  to  be 
wrapt  in  the  entrancement  of  self-admiration.  Between 
these  pleasing  objects,  there  are  neat  gravel  walks,  and 
hundreds,  nay,  often  thousands  of  persons  are  moving 
upon  them.  In  another  direction  the  ground  is  over 
spread  with  lofty  forest  trees.  Though  it  is  summer,  and 
the  sun  of  July  is  sending  down  its  rays,  still,  beneath 
these  trees  there  is  an  unbroken  shadow;  and  here,  en 
joying  the  refreshing  coolness,  are  thousands  of  people 
of  every  age  and  sex,  sheltered  from  the  heat,  secure 
from  intrusion  in  the  midst  of  multitudes,  and  as  free  from 
observation,  as  in  a  wilderness;  the  boy  drives  his  hoop, 
the  girls  play  hide-and-seek,  the  politician  reads  the  ga 
zette,  the  dame  plies  the  needle,  and  the  old  maid  cher 
ishes  her  poodle.  The  freedom  and  fearlessness  of  the 
people  in  this  place,  are  wonderful  proofs  of  the  good  man 
ners  of  the  French.  No  individual  seems  to  be  observ 
ed.  There  are  none  of  those  people  who  wink  at  each 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  305 

other,  and  giggle,  and  seem  to  be  making  sport  of  some 
third  person.  In  England,  such  a  place  as  this  would 
be  intolerable.  Every  one  would  go  dressed  for  the  oc 
casion,  and  it  would  be  as  much  a  matter  of  ceremony, 
as  lying  in  state.  Every  person  would  have  an  oppres 
sive  sense  of  observation  ;  every  person  would  be  afraid 
of  every  other.  Every  body,  of  course,  would  expect  to 
be  deliberately  scanned  by  quizzing-glasses  —  instru 
ments  described  in  the  play  as  made  "  to  look  a  modest 
woman  out  of  countenance."  Thus  the  English  would 
convert  this  elysium  of  the  Tuilleries  into  a  purgatory, 
and  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  lugubrious  than  a 
place  like  these  gardens,  transported  to  the  sooty  cli 
mate  of  London,  and  peopled  by  the  parading  English. 
The  French  have  better  taste,  and  if  the  English  have 
more  in-door  comfort,  the  former  enjoy  the  world  of  out 
doors  in  perfection.  Here,  beneath  the  trees  in  these 
gardens,  some  of  the  people  sit  for  hours  together,  and 
I  have  often  noticed  a  student  as  deeply  lost  in  his 
books,  the  quidnunc  in  his  news,  the  dreamer  in  his 
reverie,  as  if  he  alone  were  living  in  the  universe.  On 
one  occasion  I  saw  a  woman  of  fifty-five,  I  think  un 
married,  lean,  and  passing  for  eight-and-twenty.  She 
had  a  poodle  dog,  the  hinder  half  shorn  to  the  skin,  and 
the  other  as  shaggy  as  a  bear.  There  was  a  string 
about  the  poodle's  neck,  and  the  lady  was  at  the  other 
end  of  it.  Now  the  poodle  was  a  restless  dog,  and  he 
was  permitted  to  go  where  he  chose,  and  right  or  left, 
fast  or  slow,  the  lady  followed.  Sometimes  the  dog 
passed  in  front  of  a  long  row  of  people ;  then  he  shot 
suddenly  into  the  forest ;  now  he  sauntered,  and  now  he 


306  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

galloped,  and  now  he  stopped  suddenly  and  smelt  of 
something  and  after  a  little  while  he  went  on  again ; 
and  every  where  the  lady  followed.  And  this  strange 
scene  —  a  woman  submitting  to  the  volition  of  her 
poodle,  neither  excited  ridicule  nor  observation;  if 
indeed  she  was  seen  and  observed,  there  was  no  mani 
festation  of  it. 

##*##### 
We  have  now  spent  almost  two  months  in  Paris,  and 
it  is  time  to  leave  it.  But  before  we  depart,  it  is  proper 
to  make  up  our  minds  about  it.  Let  it  be  remembered 
that  our  visit  was  in  midsummer,  and  that  the  cholera, 
though  abated,  swept  off  during  our  stay,  two  hundred 
and  twenty-five  persons  a  day.  The  city  therefore  had 
a  less  gay  appearance  than  it  might  wear  on  other  occa 
sions.  A  Carlist  would  tell  you  that  all  the  chivalry 
and  taste  and  beauty  and  bienseance  had  departed  with 
Charles  X.,  and  he  would  maintain  that  rudeness  and 
vulgarity  had  taken  the  place  of  that  politeness  for 
which  the  French  have  been  so  distinguished.  There 
may  be  a  little  truth  in  this,  for  I  frequently  noticed 
examples  of  coarseness  and  brutality  which  I  had 
never  seen  in  Paris  before.  And  I  also  remarked 
many  instances  of  drunkenness,  and  even  saw  several 
women  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  One  of  these  lay  for 
several  hours  in  a  state  of  insensibility  on  the  pavement 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  she  seemed  to  excite  no  great 
surprise  in  the  passers-by.  Beside  these  indications  of 
change,  I  noticed  a  multitude  of  gross  and  disgusting 
prints  in  every  corner  of  Paris ;  and  in  most  of  the  book 
shops,  I  saw  scandalous  publications  ostentatiously  pre- 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  307 

sented  to  the  notice  of  the  public.  One  work  in  partic 
ular,  too  indecent  to  name,  was  announced  on  placards 
through  the  whole  of  the  most  frequented  parts  of  the 
Boulevards.  These  appear  to  indicate  changes  pro 
duced  by  the  Revolution,  and  that  fermentation  which 
resulted  in  the  ascendency  of  the  populace.  Whether 
the  good  manners  of  the  French  will  return,  or  whether 
these  are  destined  to  suffer  further  inroads,  is  a  question 
which  can  be  decided  now,  only  by  a  power  of  seeing 
into  future  events.  Should  the  dynasty  of  Louis  Phi 
lippe  be  confirmed,  and  the  public  mind  become  quiet, 
the  former  habits  and  character  of  the  people  may 
return. 

There  is  in  general  nothing  more  difficult  than  to 
sketch  national  character.  This  difficulty  is  increased 
when  we  have  to  struggle  with  wrong  prepossessions. 
The  English  press  has  been  the  systematic  libeller  of  the 
French,  and  we,  by  reading  its  effusions,  have  had  our 
minds  contaminated  by  prejudice.  We,  as  well  as  the 
English,  have  been  accustomed  to  consider  the  French 
as  a  nation  of  fops  and  fiddlers.  The  women  are  with 
us,  all  coquettes,  and  the  men  all  frivolous  and  false. 
But  these  views  are  unjust,  and  are  a  proof  of  ignorance 
or  blindness,  more  disgraceful  than  the  characteristics 
we  impute  to  the  French  themselves. 

The  French  women  are  thus  described  by  Mirabeau, 
the  general  truth  of  which  every  traveller  in  France 
may  attest. 

"  When  a  French  lady  comes  into  a  room,  the  first 
thing  that  strikes  you  is,  that  she  walks  better,  has  her 
head  and  feet  better  dressed  —  her  clothes  better  fancied 


308  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

and  better  put  on  —  than  any  woman  you  have  ever  seen. 
When  she  talks,  she  is  the  art  of  pleasing  personified. 
Her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  words,  her  gestures,  are  all  pre 
possessing.  Her  language  is  the  language  of  amiable- 
ness  —  her  accents  are  accents  of  grace :  she  em 
bellishes  a  trifle  —  interests  upon  nothing  —  she  softens 
a  contradiction  —  she  talks  off  the  insipidness  of  a 
compliment  by  turning  it  elegantly  —  and  when  she  has 
a  mind,  she  sharpens  the  point  of  an  epigram  better 
than  all  the  women  in  the  world.  Her  eyes  sparkle 
with  spirit  —  the  most  delightful  sallies  flash  from  her 
fancy  —  in  telling  a  story  she  is  inimitable  —  the  mo 
tions  of  her  body,  the  accents  of  her  tongue,  are 
equally  genteel  and  easy  —  an  equable  flow  of  spright- 
liness  keeps  her  constantly  good-humored  and  cheerful, 
and  the  only  objects  of  her  life  are  to  please  and  be 
pleased.  Her  vivacity  may  sometimes  approach  to 
folly  —  but  perhaps  it  is  not  in  her  moments  of  folly 
that  she  is  least  interesting  or  agreeable.  There  is  one 
thing  in  which  no  woman  in  the  world  can  compare 
with  a  French  woman.  It  is  the  power  of  intellectual 
irritation.  She  will  draw  wit  out  of  a  fool.  She  strikes 
with  such  address  the  chords  of  self-love,  that  she  gives 
unexpected  vigor  and  agility  to  fancy,  and  electrifies  a 
body  that  appears  non-electric." 

As  to  the  French  men,  they  seem  to  be  either  indif 
ferent  to  dress,  or  extravagantly  addicted  to  it  —  at  all 
events,  they  dress  badly.  In  society,  address  is  every 
thing.  Personal  beauty  in  a  French  man  is  of  little 
or  no  consequence.  Even  the  ladies  seem  not  to  think 
of  it.  Air  and  manner  embrace  every  thing  that  is 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  309 

regarded  in  personal  appearance.  In  religion  the 
Frenchmen  are  atheists  or  catholics.  Religion  enters 
very  little  into  their  conduct  in  public  or  private  life. 
There  are  few  actions  to  which  they  are  impelled  — 
there  are  few  from  which  they  are  restrained  by  it.  In 
public  and  private  life,  they  are  not  swayed  by  princi 
ples  of  morality,  nor  are  they  greatly  influenced  by  a 
consideration  of  utility.  An  Englishman  generally  acts 
from  reflection,  and  this  reflection  is  compounded  of 
many  ingredients  —  a  reference  to  the  morality,  the 
utility,  the  reputation  of  the  thing  proposed.  The 
Frenchman  decides  from  sentiment,  or  as  the  thing 
strikes  his  imagination.  He  seems  more  disinterested 
than  the  Englishman  —  but  in  truth  his  conduct  flows 
from  no  principle.  He  is  more  rapid  and  less* wise. 
He  is  fitted  for  great  or  brilliant  actions,  but  he  is  not 
likely  to  display  the  more  useful  virtues  of  honesty, 
steadfastness  and  sobriety. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  differences  between 
England  and  France  is,  that  in  the  former,  public 
opinion  exercises  a  powerful  influence;  in  the  other, 
there  is  hardly  such  a  thing.  In  England  it  is  a  pun 
gent  power,  entering  into  and  analysing  the  hearts  and 
private  actions  of  men,  displaying  them  to  the  world, 
and  trying  them  by  the  rules  of  truth,  honor  and  hon 
esty.  No  man  dares  to  set  this  public  opinion  at  de 
fiance  ;  it  operates  on  every  body,  it  tends  to  mould  or 
modify  the  conduct  and  character  of  all.  It  is  at  once 
a  proof  of  the  good  principles  and  sound  morality  dif 
fused  throughout  the  community,  and  an  efficient  cause, 

operating   to   preserve    and   perpetuate   these   virtues. 
_ 


310  SKETCHES     IN     PARIS. 

France  is  destitute  of  such  a  public  opinion.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  respect  of  the  people  which  is  worthy  of 
great  regard,  or  which  may  be  considered  as  a  meed 
likely  to  excite  to  great  actions.  There  is  nothing  in 
their  reprobation  to  be  greatly  feared,  or  likely  to  restrain 
an  individual  from  deeds  to  which  he  may  be  strongly 
tempted.  Public  opinion,  cannot,  as  in  England,  confer 
infamy,  which  man  cannot  endure  —  nor  can  it  as  in 
England,  bestow  that  approbation  which  is  better  than 
any  other  gift. 

Publi6  opinion  cannot  indeed  exist  without  the  means 
of  expressing  itself.  In  America  and  England  the  press 
is  the  means  by  which  it  acts.  In  France,  the  press 
has  been  and  still  is  too  much  restrained,  to  permit  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  men  to  be  freely  and  efficiently 
circulated.  And  even  if  the  press  were  free,  it  could 
only  announce  the  sentiments  and  opinions  that  exist, 
and  I  have  before  stated  that  the  French  are  not 
deeply  imbued  with  honesty,  morality  or  religion.  They 
are  a  people  full  of  taste  and  genius,  and  capable  of 
perceiving  and  feeling  whatever  is  beautiful  in  the  arts, 
in  sentiment  and  in  nature ;  but  that  higher  principle 
which  teaches  them  to  do  to  another  as  they  would  have 
another  do  to  them,  and  that  faith  which  makes  man 
constantly  look  to  a  future  state  of  existence  for  a  final 
decision  upon  his  actions,  are  defectively  entertained  or 
totally  wanting. 

In  considering  the  French  character,  therefore,  we 
must  regard  them  as  having  little  other  impulse  to  do 
right  than  what  is  furnished  by  sensibility  and  taste. 
They  are  destitute  of  the  potent  fears  and  hopes  which 


SKETCHES     IN     PARIS.  311 

religion  presents  to  the  mind,  and  they  are  without  that 
stirring  ambition  which  public  approbation,  in  England 
and  America,  brings  into  action ;  and  they  are  without 
that  restraint  which  the  fear  of  public  condemnation  im 
poses.  The  desire  of  money  with  a  view  to  personal 
gratification,  is  with  them  the  grand  passion,  and  they 
pursue  this  without  a  very  scrupulous  regard  to  the 
means  they  employ.  The  merchants  in  general  are 
said  to  be  destitute  of  good  faith,  and  the  political 
characters  are  looked  upon,  with  few  exceptions,  as  ad 
venturers  caring  for  little  but  to  push  their  individual 
fortunes.  Such  appears  to  be  the  present  condition  of 
things  :  but  a  fermentation  —  an  agitation,  is  going  on  — 
and  under  circumstances  which  cannot  but  result  in 
improvement.  The  press  is  struggling,  day  by  day,  into 
more  perfect  freedom ;  a  sounder  state  of  public  opinion 
is  forming ;  and  the  elements  of  society,  so  long  and  so 
often  convulsed,  appear  to  be  crystalising  on  better  prin 
ciples. 


*  .* 


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